Mountain Tay

Gather up the pots and the old tin can
 The mash, the corn, the barley, and the bran
 Run like the devil from the excise men
 Keep the smoke from rising, Barney
 Mountain breezes as they blow
 Hear their echo in the glen below
 The excise men are on the go
 In the hills of Connemara
 Gather up the pots and the old tin can
 The mash, the corn, the barley, and the bran
 Run like the devil from the excise men
 Keep the smoke from rising, Barney
 A gallon for the butcher, a quart for Tom
 A bottle for poor old Father John
 To help his prayers and his hymns along
 In the hills of Connemara
 Gather up the pots and the old tin can
 The mash, the corn, the barley, and the bran
 Run like the devil from the excise men
 Keep the smoke from rising, Barney
 Hold your ground, boys, it's too late
 The excise men are at the gate
 Glory be to Paddy, but they're drinking it straight
 In the hills of Connemara
 Gather up the pots and the old tin can
 The mash, the corn, the barley, and the bran
 Run like the devil from the excise men
 Keep the smoke from rising, Barney
 Swing to the left and swing to the right
 The excise men will dance all night
 Drinking up the tay till the broad daylight
 In the hills of Connemara
 Gather up the pots and the old tin can
 The mash, the corn, the barley, and the bran
 Run like the devil from the excise men
 Keep the smoke from rising, Barney
 Gather up the pots and the old tin can
 The mash, the corn, the barley, and the bran
 Run like the devil from the excise men
 Keep the smoke from rising, Barney