Cruiskeen Lawn 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 cruiskeen lawn, lawn, lawn Oh, my charmin little cruiskeen lawn CHO: Gra-ma-chree ma-cruiskeen, slainte geal mavoorneen Gra-machree a cool-in bawn, bawn, bawn Oh! gramachree a coolin bawn 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 etc And when grim Death appears, in a few but pleasant years To tell me that my glass has run I'll say, "Begone, you knave! For great Bacchus gave me leave To take another etc