 These lonely nights put a chill on my bones so the liquor keeps me warm. I'm tired and weary, busted and bleary, and I never seem to find my way home. I've been down and out, pretty knocked about, but I can't do without my sweet corn. Wake me up when the sun goes down and the fiddle starts playing its tune. That ragamone reel goes around and round underneath the honest moon. I'll sing an old song by the bonfire light, watch the long hours slip away. I may be wrong, but it doesn't matter.