| Now brave boys we’ll run for march, not to Portugal or Spain,
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| The drums are beatin', banners flyin', the devil at home we’ll find tonight.
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| Chorus:
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| Love, fare thee well,
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| With me ti-ther-ee-i doo-dle-um-a-day,
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| With me ti-ther-ee-i doo-dle-um-a-day,
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| Me right-fol toor-a-lad-die o, there’s whisky in the jar.
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| Hey! |
| Whisky, you’re the devil, you’re leading me astray,
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| Over hills and mountins and to Americay,
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| You’re sweeter, stronger, decenter, you’re spunkier than tay,
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| O, whisky you’re me darlin', drunk or sober.
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| The French are fighting boldly, men are dyin' hot and cowardly,
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| Give every man his turn of powder and firelock on his shoulder.
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| Chorus
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| Says the mother: «Do not wrong me, don’t take my daughter from me,
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| For if you do I will torment you and after that me ghost will haunt you».
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| Chorus |