To tell me that my glass is run,
I’ll say, begone you slave,
For great Bacchus gave me lave
To have another Cruiskeen Lawn—Lawn—Lawn.
Chorus.—Repeat.
Gramachree, &c., &c.
Hard [Without, L. U. E.] Ho! Sheelah—Sheelah!
Sheelah [Rising.] Whist! it’s the master.
Eily [Frightened.] Hardress! oh, my! what will he say if he finds us here—run, Myles—quick, Sheelah—clear away the things.
Father T Hurry now, or we’ll get Eily in throuble.