Here comes Mister MacNeilThe fine shape that he is inThere is no telling which way he'll feelAfter his twister around the beinnRaisin' the jar an raisin' hellThere's plenty of stories thatthey will tellSome are born of true detailSome are purely fictionLook up yonder it's old MacPheeHe's having a few he can hardly seeWrapped his buggy around a treeSomeone call the MountiesRaisin't the jar and raisin' hellThere's plenty of stories thatthey will tellSome are born of true detailSome are purely fictionUp spoke fine young CameronAt the dance got a fearful hammerin'Today I'll stutter and stammer inThere'll be hell to pay come SaturdayRaisin' the jar and raisin' hellThere's plenty of stories that they will tellSome are born of true detailSome are purely fictionThere they stand by the doorSelling bush by the scoreAsking you to buy some moreAlong the shores of 'CocomaghRaisin' the jar and raisin' hellThere's plenty of stories thatthey will tellSome are born of true detailSome are purely fictionI'll go home, I'll go homeFull of the devil and full of the rumI'll go home, I'll go homeWe'll all go home in the morning
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