Let grasses grow And Waters flow In a free and easy way. But give me enough Of the finer stuff, That's made near Galway Bay. And peelers all, From Donegal, Galway and Leitrum too. We'll give them the slip And we'll take a sip Of the real old mountain dew. At the foot of the hill There's a neat little still Where the smoke curls up to the sky. By the smoke and the smell You can plainly tell That there's poteen brewing nearby. For it fills the air With odor rare And betwixt both me and you, When home you roll You can take a bowl Of the real old mountain dew Now learned men Who use the pen Have wrote your praises high. This sweet poteen From Ireland's green Distilled from Wheat and Rye. Throw away your pills It'll cure all ills, Be you Pagan, Christian, Jew. Take off your coat And free your throat With the real old mountain dew Hi the diddly idle um diddly doo idle um, diddly doo rah diddly-i-day Hi the diddly idle um diddly doo idle um, diddly doo rah diddly-i-day