B EIMEEDH a gole!
Fill up the bowl,
Let us console
Dull care with a glass, boys!
Shall it be wine,
Fragrant and fine,
Fresh smuggled from Spain underneath a mattrass, boys?
No! all of those pleasant
Casks out of Cadiz
Leave as a present,
Lads, for the ladies!
But for ourselves, sure
What should we say
But Whiskey for ever!
Till dawning of day.

Beimeedh a gole!
Wasn't it droll,
He that first stole
Fire from Heaven's grate, boys
Look now, was left,
Chained to a cleft,
A century through, for an eagle to ate, boys!
St. Pat, though, when stealing
Fire from that quarter,
Kept it concealing
Snug under water;
Till he'd conveyed it
Safe to the ground,
Then looked, and, begorra,
'Twas whiskey he found.

Beimeedh a gole!
Each with his poll
Quite in control,
For all its containing;
Smiling we sit,
Warming our wit
With nectar the Gods might begrudge us the draining.
Now, ere we go snoozing
Under the clothes,
Don't be refusing
One health I propose.
Here's to the darling,
Pale as the dew,
That pounds Purple Bacchus
And all of his crew!