O – to be there now,
Hand in hand with my fellow first-mates,
Bound for treasure; with shovels a’plough,
Through golden fields and salty lakes,
We would finger white crusty gems and dusty gold,
Before returning home, with tales to be told.
A day at Loughshinny; seems an age ago,
I wonder if our footsteps are still there now,
Heavy with buckets and shovels a’plough,
Before salty wakes and golden hands,
Hauling crusty white gems from out of the sands.
There’s smuggling to be had,
From where the cove meets the cad,
Where strange places can be seen,
If one were to wander from out of the green,
But rest assured my lads; our conscience is pure,
Like the crusty white gems we long to procure.
Trepidation of tale and woe alike,
Hold truth where strangers hike,
Upon the distant shores of Loughshinny; alas! the deep blue dreamer has come for our footsteps,
And with a frothy white mane will cradle our gems,
And she will rest easy.
