Let the farmer praise his grounds, let the hunter praise his hounds,
Letthe shepherd praise his sweetly scented lawn;
But I, more blest than they, spend each happy night and day
With my darlin' little cruiscin lan, lan, lan
Oh, my darlin little cruiscin lan.

Chorus:
Gra-ma-chree ma-cruiscin, slainte geal mavoorneen
Gra-machree ma cruiscin lan lan lan,
Oh! gramachree ma cruiscan lan

Immortal and divine, great Bacchus, god of wine
Create me by adoption your own son.
In hopes that you'll comply, That my glass shall ne'er run dry
Nor my darlin' little cruiscan lan lan lan
My darlin' little

And when cruel Death appears, in a few but happy years,
To tell me that my glass has run,
I'll say, "Begone, you knave! For great Bacchus gave me leave
To take another cruiscan lan lan lan
To take another cruiscan lan lan lan