Mountain Tay - The Irish Rovers

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 man

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

Keep your eyes well peeled today

The big, tall men are on their way

Searching for the mountain tay

In the hills of Connemara

A gallon for the butcher, a quart for Tom

A bottle for poor old Father John

To help his prayers and hymns along

In the hills of Connemara

Stand 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

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