It’s cold in Kilfenora
When the winter wind blows in
And the rain comes whipping sideways
And it chills you to the skin
But the public house is reeling
It warms the more we sing
And every girl’s a goddess
and every man’s a king

With the fiddle and the whistle
The tunes go on and on
And everybody quite content
To sing away till dawn
A quarter hour to closing
But no one seems to care
You’d swear that you could hear us
The breadth of County Clare

    And it’s one more round for the Kings of Kilfenora
    One more round to keep away the cold
    One more night we’re penniless by morning
    But home’ll march the kings as if
    The streets were paved with gold

So merrily we’ll argue
And merrily we’ll roar
And merrily the barman
Will shove us out the door
Another double whisky
We’ll never feel the rain
We’ll march back to our palaces
In triumph once again

    And it’s one more round…