The Lost Tribe of the Wicklow Mountains

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 ravrs, they could be Wiccans
Who squat above in high ruins
Cavorting at thousand-day hoolys
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 green