| lyric | Let the farmer praise his grounds
let the sportsman praise his hounds,
The shepherd his dewy vested lawn.
But I more blest tha they spend each happe nichgt and day,
without my charming little crúiscín lán lán lán.
Chorus:
Grà mo chroí mo chrúiscín
sláinte geal mo mhúirnín,
Is grá mo chroí a cúillín bán bán bán,
O grá mo chroí a cúillín bán.
Immortal and divine great Bacchus god of wine
Create me by adoption your own son
In hope that you'll comply that my glass should never run dry
Nor my smiling little crfiiscin 1am Ian Ian
Oh my charming little crúiscín Ián.
And when grim death appears in a few but pleasant years
To tell me that my glass it has run dry
I'll say begone you knave for bold Bacchus gave me leave
For to take another crúiscín lán lán lánn
Oh my charming little cruiscin Ian. |