Out
in the glen where the green hills roll,
a hare darted quick by the old stone knoll
with a flash of its tail,
a lap so spry like a streak of brown against the morning sky.
Round and round the wild hare goes,
through the brambles past the crows,
jump and jig and
dance my friend,
for the wild hare's jig will never end.
The farmer's boots stomped heavy and loud,
chasing that hare through the heathered shroud,
but the hare lapped back with a wink and a bow,
vanishing quick without a sound.
Round and round the wild hare goes,
through the brambles past the crows,
jump and jig
and dance my friend,
for the wild hare's jig will never end.
Oh!
Oh!
Oh!
The fiddle sings and the whistle cries,
the bother on beats where the spirit flies,
raise
your glass,
let the music soar,
and chase that hare to the far off shore.
Round and round the wild hare goes,
through the brambles past the crows,
jump and jig and dance my friend,
for the wild hare's jig will never end.