Let grasses grow and waters flow in a free and easy way, But give me enough of the dear old stuff that's made near Galway Bay. The gaugers all from Donegal, Sligo and Leitrim too, O we'll give them the slip and we'll take a sip of the dear old mountain dew. Hi the dithery al the dal, dal the dal the dithery al, al the dal dal dithery al dee. At the foot of the hill there's a neat little still where the smoke curls up to the sky; By a whiff of the smell, you can plainly tell that there's poitin, boys, close by. For it fills the air with a perfume rare, and betwixt both me and you, As home we roll, we can drink a bowl or a bucket full of mountain dew. Now learned men who use the pen have wrote the praises high Of the sweet poitin from Ireland green, distilled with wheat and rye. Away with pills, it will cure all ills of the pagan, Christian or Jew; So take off your coat and grease your throat with the real old mountain dew.