The mess is tent is full and the glasses are set,
And the gallant Count Thomond is president yet,
The veterans arose like an uplifted lance,
Crying "Comrades, a health to the monarch of France!"
With a thunderous cheer now, they did as their bade,
For King Louis is loved by the Irish Brigade.

A health to King James and to Sarsfield's wise craft,
"Here's to George the elector!" and fiercely they laughed,
Good luck to the girls we wooed long ago,
Where the Shannon and Barrow and black waters flow,
You would think in old Ireland that they were afraid,
But in battle there's none like the Irish Brigade.

But surely that light does not come from our lamp,
And the boys, they are all singing songs round the camp,
Hurrah, boys, the morning of battle has come,
And the generals beating on many a drum,
They rushed from the revel to join the parade,
For the sword is the light of the Irish Brigade.

They fought as they revelled, just fiery and true,
And the victors, they left on the field of the few,
And they who survived fought and drank as before,
For the land of their hearts hope they never saw more,
In far foreign fields from Dunkirk to Belgrade,
Lay the soldiers and chiefs of the Irish Brigade.

In far foreign fields from Dunkirk to Belgrade,
Lay the soldiers and chiefs of the Irish Brigade.