| At the pub at the crossroads there’s whiskey and beer
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| There’s brandy, strong cognac that’s aging for years
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| But for killing the thirst and for easing the gout
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| There’s nothing at all beats a pint of good stout
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| Drink it up men it’s long after ten
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| At the pub on the crossroads I first went astray
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| There I drank enough drink for to fill Galway Bay
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| Going up in the morning I wore out me shoes
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| Going up to the cross for the best of good booze
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| Drink it up men it’s long after ten
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| Some folk’s o’er the water think bitter is fine
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| And others the swear by the juice of the vine
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| But there’s nothing that’s squeezed from the grape or the hop
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| Like the black liquidation with the froth on the top
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| Drink it up men it’s long after ten
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| I’ve travelled in England, I’ve travelled in France
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| At the sound of good music I’ll sing or I’ll dance
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| So hear me then mister and pour me one more
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| If I can’t drink it up, then throw me out the door
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| Drink it up men it’s long after ten
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| It’s Guinness’s porter that has me this way
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| For it’s sweeter than buttermilk and stronger then tea
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| And when in the morning I feel kind a rough
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| Me curse on lord Iveagh who brews the damn stuff
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| Drink it up men it’s long after ten
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| Drink it up men it’s long after ten |