Do ritheamar trasna trí ruilleogach
Is do ghluais an comhrac ar fud na muinge,
Is treascairt dá bhfuair sé sna turtóga
Chuas ina ainneoin ar a dhroim le fuinneamh
Alliliú puilliliu, alliliú tá an poc ar buile.

Níor fhág sé carraig go raibh scó (scabhat) ann
Ná gur rith le fórsa chun mé a mhilleadh,
Is ea ansin do chaith sé an léim ba mhó
Le fána mhór na Faille Brice,
Alliliú puilliliu, alliliú tá an poc ar buile.

Bhí garda mór i mBaile an Róistigh
Is bhailigh fórsaí chun sinn a chlipeadh,
Do bhuail sé rop dá adhairc sa tóin air
Is dá bhríste nua do dhein sé giobail,
Alliliú puilliliu, alliliú tá an poc ar buile.

I nDaingean Uí Chúis le haghaidh an tráthnóna
Bí an sagart paróiste amach ‘nár gcoinnibh,
Is é dúirt gurbh é an diabhal ba dhóigh leis
A ghaibh an treo ar phocán buile!
Alliliú puilliliu, alliliú tá an poc ar buile

As I set out with me pike in hand
To old Dromore to join a meithil 1
Who should I meet but a tan puck goat
An’ he roarin’ mad, in ferocious fettle.
(Chorus:)
Alliliu/ puilliliu/, alliliu/ ta/ an poc ar buile.

He chased me over bush and weed
And through the bog the run proceeded
‘uill he caught his horns in a clump of gorse
And on his back I jumped unheeded.
(Chorus)

There was ne’er a rock with no passage through
Which he didn’t jump, and me like Eddie Macken2
But when he lepped clean down Faill Breach
I felt like a load of old wet sackin’.
(Chorus)

When the Sergeant stood in Rochestown
With a force of guards to apprehend us
The goat he tore his trousers down
And made rags of his breeches and new suspenders.
(Chorus)

In Dingle the following afternoon
The Parish priest came to call us to order
And he swore from the pulpit each Sunday in June
‘Twas the divil on the back of his old grandfather.
(Chorus)