Let the farmer praise his grounds,
Let the huntsman praise his hounds,
Let the shepherd praise his dewy scented lawn;
Oh, but I, more wise than they,
Spend each happy night and day
With my darling little crúiscín lán, lán, lán,
My darling little crúiscín lán!
Chorus:
O grádh mo chroidhe mo crúiscín,—
Sláinte geal mo mhúirnín.
Grádh mo chroidhe mo crúiscín lán, lán, lán,
O grádh mo chroidhe mo crúiscín lán.
Immortal and divine,
Great Bacchus, god of wine,
Create me by adoption your own son;
In hope that you'll comply,
That me glass may ne'er run dry.
Nor my darling little crúiscín lán, lán, lán,
Oh, my darling little crúiscín lán!
Chorus
And when grim death appears,
In a few but happy years,
And says, “Oh, won't you come along with me?”
I'll say, “Begone, ye knave,
For King Bacchus gave me leave
To take another crúiscín lán, lán, lán,
To take another crúiscín lán!”
Chorus
Then fill your glasses high,
Let's not part with lips so dry,
Though the lark now proclaims it is the dawn;
And since we can't remain,
May we shortly meet again,
To fill another crúiscín lán, lán, lán,
To fill another crúiscín lán!
Chorus