Gather up the pots and the old tin cans,

the mash, the com, the barley and the bran.

Run like the devil from the excise man

keep the smoke from rising, Barney.

Keep your eyes well peeled today,

the excise man is on his way

searching tor the mountain tay

in the hills of Connemara.

Swing to the left and swing to the right,

the excise man will dance all night

drinkin’up the Tay till the broad daylight

in the hills of Connemara.

A gallon for the butcher and a quart for Tom

and a bottle tor the poor old father John

to help the poor old man along

in the hills of Connemara.

Stand your ground, for it’s too late:

the excise men is at the gate,

glory be to God, he’s drinking it nate

in the hills of Connemara.