A tale I'll tell of the blades that dwell in the vale
of Balymacoda,
hale and merry both ale and sherry they'll drink, but
never touch soda.
Brave and bright both day and night they'll drink from
flagans unshaken,
with hearts of gladness, no thought of sadness, the
empty barrel they're walkin'.

No gold they cherish for gold will perish, no store
nor treasure preparing,
but give them whisky to keep them frisky with
neighbours, jolly, they're sharing.
Without a penny they'll share with any and never a
beggar is slighted,
they'll give you a cask if you but ask while they wake
the barrel delighted.

late and early they're crowded fairly with blind men,
crippled and lame too,
well they know the road to go and, qick, they follow
that same too.
No poor old sinner but gets his dinner and should be
come in the morning,
we'll fetch him in with a joyfol din and never a word
of scorning.

Though small the hut the door's ne'er shut when a meal
is put on the table,
we've enough for a friend and plenty to lend, and
gifts to send we are able.
A cheer and shout puts dull care to route and he's a
lout who'd be pining,
who hears the noise and who shares our joys in
Ballymacoda we're dining.