On an island bright and green, my mind sets a lovely scene, where golden barley gently waves in the breeze.

As the sun looks down and smiles and a gentle rain beguiles while lilting birdsong drifts over from the trees.

A short span across the Channel, on a lushly green mantel, spires of hops reach toward the sky,

And in this alpine valley, angels dance and dally, and a heavenly flavor they apply.

Way up in the Wicklow mountains, there are sweet and pure fountains, that bubble from deep inside the earth,

And this elixir sweet and pure, no one can demur, in the brewer’s tun multiplies its worth. 

Sure the barley must be malted, and then when its growth is halted and it’s roasted to a lovely shade of brown,

It then forms a boiling wort, in which the hops play and cavort, then the magic starts when it’s quite cooled down.

In comes the swimming yeast, upon the sugars they will feast, and to think, the alcohol’s their waste!

While still not ready, rest assured, once this potion has matured, it has found its bouquet and its taste.

Now here I set, a sober fool, astride my favorite stool, at my favorite pub, leaning on the bar,

In quiet anticipation I await my libation, that has come to me here from across the sea so far.

When the time has come to pass, that it’s served up in a glass, a dusky beauty with a light and bubbly head of foam,

All the goodness in one glass mixed, as I stand and stare transfixed, as she settles upward from below.

Ah, I can not help but think it, it’s almost a shame to drink it, but of course I do, you know for that’s the thing,

Then I slap the bar top, “Oh brother! Can we please, here, have another!? For you know, the bird never flew on just one wing.”