Verse: Let the farmer praise his grounds, let the hunter praise his hounds, And the shepherd his sweet scented lawn; But I, more blest than they, spend each happy night and day With my charmin' little Cruiscan Lan, Lan, Lan Oh, my charmin little Cruiscan Lan.
Gra-ma-chree ma-Cruiscan, slainte geal mavoorneen Gra-machree a Cruiscan Lan, Lan, Lan, Oh! gramachree a Cruiscan Lan.
Immortal and divine, great Bacchus, god of wine Create me by adoption your son. In hopes that you'll comply, That my glass shall ne'er run dry Nor my smilin' little Cruiscan Lan, Lan, Lan, Oh, my smilin' little Cruiscan Lan.
And when grim Death appears, in a few butt happy years, To tell me that my glass has run, I'll say, "Begone, you knave! For great Bacchus gave me leave To take another Cruiscan Lan, Lan, Lan, To take another Cruiscan Lan.