I believe in them so they do exist Way up in the Wicklow Mountains tis easier to hide than you think Back in behind them waterfalls Deep down in sunless crevices In rhodedendroned foliage On slopes of fluttering shadow and scree Nothing speaks of this tribe apart from these words They could be waifs running free from the lead mines They could be orphans out of ballads and poems They could be rebels who outran the redcoats They could be ravers, they could be Wiccans Who squat above in high ruins Cavorting at thousand-day hooleys Beneath great roofless halls Turning to foxes at midnight They plough through the motorway snow To scavenge suburban dustbins Down around Newtownmountkennedy Down around Newtownmountkennedy This Tribe has no patterns Fits no description Nothing about it translates Apart from its existence No reasons no thesis no customs no goals The Tribe is my credo… that's all Strong is my faith, strong is my Beat Strong is my magic, strong is my Want And wanting I will rise, up alongside them Spinning into the mist, ne'er to be seen again High above Mullaghacleevaune
Some of our boys To the hills they have gone away More of them have been shot And some are far out at sea
Michael Dwyer of the mountain Has plenty of cause for his spleen For the loss of his own Loyal comrades who died on the greenTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
