Fill high your glasses, Irishmen and drink a toast with me.
And when they’re empty, fill again and we’ll drink once more with glee.
To those who strike for native land, no matter when or where.
Then three times three for the gallant band, the men of County Clare.

Ah, ‘tis there you’ll find the real old strain since the days of Brian Boru,
When they marched to meet the savage Danes from the hills of Killaloe.
And when they met this mail-clad foe, how did those foemen fare?
Their battle axes laid them low, the mighty men of Clare.

And when DeValera called on Clare to strike for native land,
There nobly rallied everywhere, a brave and glorious band.
Against mighty odds they gained the day, true hearts to do and dare.
They’re always foremost in the fray, the men of County Clare.

So fill high your glasses, Irishmen and drink a toast once more.
Our land a nation free again, from Cork to Antrim’s shore.
We’ll drink to where the boys are brave, and the girls beyond compare.
Where ne’er was bred a coward or slave, then: Up sweet county Clare!