It's the final day of the routine seven,
The jig is nearly up,
Its back to work come morning time,
Till then we'll take a sup,

Sure Nealon's is the place to go,
Its usually quiet at this time,
Leave your gaf and start to walk,
And then call in to mine

The laughing and the chatting,
As the stout begins to flow,
Suddenly its last orders,
And then we'll have to go

I can't help but feel so privileged,
As I exit Nealon's door,
My friends are all around me,
Can you ask for any more?

See yis later lads, I call

Such evenings mean so much to me,
I wonder if they know?