Print This Page Print This Page 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