Let the grasses grow and the waters flow in a free and easy way Just give me enough of the fine old stuff that's brewed near Galway Bay Come gougers all from Donegal, Sligo and Leitrim too We'll give them the slip and we'll take a sip of the rare old mountain dew Skid-ree Idle-diddle dum skid-ree Idle-diddle dum Skid-ree Idle-dum diddle dum day Skid-ree Idle-diddle dum skid-ree Idle-diddle dum Skid-ree Idle-dum diddle dum day There's a neat little still at the foot of the hill, and smoke twirls up to the sky For the smoke and the smell, its plan to tell that there's poteen brewing near by It fills the air, with an odor rare, and betwixt both me and you When home you stroll, you can take a bowl, or a bucket of the mountain dew Skid-ree Idle-diddle dum skid-ree Idle-diddle dum Skid-ree Idle-dum diddle dum day Skid-ree Idle-diddle dum skid-ree Idle-diddle dum Skid-ree Idle-dum diddle dum day Now learned men who use the pen, have written their praises high That sweet poteen from Ireland green, distilled from wheat and rye Throw away your pills; it will cure all ills, of the pagan, the Christian or Jew Take off your coat and grease your throat, with the real old mountain dew Skid-ree Idle-diddle dum skid-ree Idle-diddle dum Skid-ree Idle-dum diddle dum day Skid-ree Idle-diddle dum skid-ree Idle-diddle dum Skid-ree Idle-dum diddle dum day
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