Christy Moore Mcilhatton
Bobby Sands
In Glenravel's Glen there lives a man whom some would
call a god
For he could cure your shakes with a bottle of his
stuff would cost you thirty bob
Come winter, summer, frost all over, a jiggin' Spring
on the breeze
In the dead of night a man steps by, "McIlhatton, if
you please"
CHORUS
McIlhatton you blurt we need you, cry a million shaking
men
Where are your sacks of barley, will your likes be seen
again?
Heres a jig to the man and a reel to the drop and a
swing to the girl he loves
May your fiddle play and poitín cure your company up
above
Theres a wisp of smoke to the south of the Glen and the
poitín is on the air
The birds in the burrows and the rabbits in the sky and
there's drunkards everywhere
At Skerries Rock the fox is out and begod he's chasing
the hounds
And the only thing in decent shape is buried beneath
the ground
CHORUS
At McIlhatton's house the fairies are out and dancing
on the hobs
The goat's collapsed and the dog has run away and
there's salmon down the bogs
He has a million gallons of wash and the peelers are on
the Glen
But they'll never catch that hackler cos he's not
comin' home again
CHORUS X 2
