Tie the batten down we'll take them in Killarney, 

Where the whiskey rivers flow as the sergeant drinks the flood,

They fled in disarray as they left what they were taking,

It's time to hoist the anchor and to chase the tide away,



'Tis the trickle in the eye that beholds the rose of Ireland,

It's the pure blooded cry that'll lick the wounds of sin,

Past on from the mist to all the blazing sirens

As we chase em outta the valley to the dregs of Dingle bay. 



Go home, home, home, chase the galley home 

Home, home, chase the galley home.

For all the gold and silver we wouldn't trade a thing.

The soil beneath the feet is the land that makes a king.



Give the king his crown let him ride upon his horses,

Let him rally up the troops 'give em hell boys, have no mercy',

There's a full moon on the rise and a fire that won't be quenching,

Till the scallywags surrender to the mercy of the sea.



We'll be cheering upon the Cnoc as the liquor feeds the flitter,

We'll be dancing til we drop, ah not beggar be left a standing,

Hail to the chief upon the land who led his men to be victorious,

We'll drink the potion down now ’tis a good time to be free.



Go home, home, home, chase the galley home 

Home, home, chase the galley home.

For all the gold and silver we wouldn't trade a thing.

The soil beneath the feet is the land that makes a king.