| Let grasses grow and waters flow in a free and easy way
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| But give me enough of the fine old stuff that’s made near Galway Bay
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| And policemen all from Donegal, Sligo and Leitrim too
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| Oh, we’ll give them the slip and we’ll take a sip
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| Of the rare old Mountain Dew
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| Hi di-diddly-idle-um, diddly-doodle-idle-um, diddly-doo-ri-diddlum-deh
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| Hi di-diddly-idle-um, diddly-doodle-idle-um, diddly-doo-ri-diddlum-deh
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| At the foot of the hill there’s a neat little still
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| Where the smoke curls up to the sky
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| By the smoke and the smell you can plainly tell
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| That there’s poitin brewin' nearby
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| For it fills the air with an aura rare
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| And betwixt both me and you
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| As home you troll, you can take a bowl
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| Or a bucket of the Mountain Dew
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| Now learned men who use the pen
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| Have wrote your praises high
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| Of the rare poitin from Ireland green
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| Distilled from wheat and rye
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| Throw away your pills, it’ll cure all ills
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| Of Pagan, Christian or Jew
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| So take off your coat and grease your throat
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| With the rare old Mountain Dew |