To the West

The Midland Great Western is doing its best,
And the circular ticket is safe in my vest;
But I know that my holiday never begins
Till I’m in Connemara among the Twelve Pins.

The Bank has no fortune of mine to invest
But there’s money enough for the ones I love best;
All the gold that I want I shall find on the whins
When I’m in Connemara among the Twelve Pins.

Down by the Lough I shall wander once more’
Where the wavelets lap lap round the stones on the shore:
And the mountainy goats will be wagging their chins
As they pull at the bracken among the Twelve Pins.

And its welcome I’ll be, for no longer I’ll meet
The hard pallid faces I find in the street;
The girl with blue eyes, and the boy with brown shins,
Will stand for their pictures among the twelve Pins.

Tonight, when all London’s with gaslight agleam,
And the Carlton is filled with society’s cream’,
I’ll be ‘takin’ me tay’ down at ould Johnny Flynn’s
Safe and away in the heart o’ the Pins.