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.