Let the farmer praise his grounds
Let the huntsman praise his hounds
Let the shepherd praise his newly scented lawn
But I, more blessed than they
Spend each happy night and day
With my charmin' little cruiskeen lawn, lawn, lawn
My charmin' little cruiskeen lawn!
Gra-ma-chree ma-cruiskeen
Slainte geal mavoorneen
Gra-ma-chree a cool-in, bawn, bawn, bawn
Oh, gra-ma-chree a cool-in bawn!
Im mortal and divine
Great Bacchus, god of wine
Create me by adoption your son
In hopes that you'll comply
That my gla** shall ne'er run dry
Nor my smilin' little cruiskeen lawn, lawn, lawn
My smilin' little cruiskeen lawn!
Gra-ma-chree ma-cruiskeen
Slainte geal mavoorneen
Gra-ma-chree a cool-in, bawn, bawn, bawn
Oh, gra-ma-chree a cool-in bawn!
And when grim d**h appears
In a few but pleasant years
To tell me that my gla** has run
I'll say: "Begone, you knave!
For great Bacchus gave me leave
To take another cruiskeen lawn, lawn, lawn
My smilin' little cruiskeen lawn!
Gra-ma-chree ma-cruiskeen
Slainte geal mavoorneen
Gra-ma-chree a cool-in, bawn, bawn, bawn
Oh, gra-ma-chree a cool-in bawn!