The Road to Clifden

We miss Lettermore time-pressed

It’s a lost island of the blest

Where white sea-trout are on the run

And wide seas tarnish in the sun

Remote and dreaming in the West

The bog road is winding and narra 

A man’s cutting peat for his barra

And well I never

For the first time ever

Sunglasses in Connemara

At Kilkiaran they’re harvesting wrack

For animal feed made by the stack

Steve’ has a natter

About any old matter 

He can’t stop himself looking for craic

The Roundstone Café has some view

They serve a great Buddha bowl too

The Dog’s Bay strand

Has peroxide sand

And Connemara’s sky is never more blue.