In Glenravel’s Glen there lives a man whom some would call a god
For to cure your shakes with a bottle of his stuff would cost you thirty bob
Come winter, summer, frost all over, a jiggin’ Spring on the breeze
In the dead of night a man steps by, “McIlhatton, if you please”

McIlhatton, you blurt we need you, cry a million shaking men
Where are your sacks of barley, will your likes be seen again ?
Here’s a jig to the man and a reel to the drop and a swing to the girl he loves
May your fiddle play and poitee­n cure your company up above

There’s a wisp of smoke to the south of the Glen and the poitee­n is in the air
The birds in the burrows and the rabbits in the sky and there’s drunkards everywhere
At Skerries Rock, the fox is out and begod he’s chasing the hounds
And the only thing in decent shape is buried beneath the ground

At McIlhatton’s house, the fairies are out and dancing on the hobs
The goat’s collapsed and the dog’s run away and there’s salmon down the bogs
He has a million gallons of wash and the peelers are on the Glen
But they’ll never catch that hackler ‘cos he’s not coming again


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