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Cold wind on the harbour and rain on the road,
Wet promise of winter brings recourse to coal;
There's fire in the blood and a fog on Bras d'Or,
The giant will rise with the moon.
'Twas the same ancient fever in the Isles of the Blest,
That our fathers brought with them when they went west;
It's the blood of the Druids that never will rest,
The giant will rise with the moon.
So crash the glass down. Move with the tide.
Young friends and old whiskey are burning inside;
Crash the glass down,
Fingal will rise with the moon.
In inclement weather the people are fey,
Three-thousand-year stories as the night slips away;
Remembering Fingal feels not far away,
The giant will rise with the moon.
The wind's in the north. There'll be new moon tonight,
And we have no circle to dance in its sight;
So light a torch, bring the bottle, and build the fire bright,
The giant will rise with the moon!
So crash the glass down. Move with the tide,
Young friends and old whiskey are burning inside;
Crash the glass down,
Fingal will rise with the moon.
Cold wind on the harbour and rain on the road,
Wet promise of winter brings recourse to coal;
There's fire in the blood and a fog on Bras d'Or,
The giant will rise with the moon.
