When you see the grassy sand dunes
You know you're nearly there
That echo of childhood excitement
The burrows filling up with hares
At the bungalow, our voices clattering
Nanny exasperated, would shout
"Get to Hell's flying gates!
And don't yous be hobnobbing in this house!"
Mischief was atop of the list
Many an Easter and Summer here
We'd kick around all the arcades
Befriend a few locals if any came near
Pool in the Beach Hotel
Smoking cigarettes by the harbour bogs
Truth or dare in the big sandy ditch
That crisp evening snap of burning logs
Ghost stories in the caravans
That shit scared walk home in pitch black
Nowadays you'd have the pints instead
In the Pier Head, sitting down the back
That coastal walk a whole world of beauty
Wild rocks below the grassy holes
Brutal and unforgiving expanse
Quiets the most unsettled soul
Down by the pier
It's always grey and windy here
This time of year
Or any other
The convent bell and rattlin' boats
Turbulent sea and heavy coats
I always think of Mullaghmore
In this sort of weather
Marty Byrne - Mullaghmore Weather 146 Lyrics
Marty Byrne - Mullaghmore Weather 146 Lyrics
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English
When you see the grassy sand dunes
You know you're nearly there
That echo of childhood excitement
The burrows filling up with hares
At the bungalow, our voices clattering
Nanny exasperated, would shout
"Get to Hell's flying gates!
And don't yous be hobnobbing in this house!"
Mischief was atop of the list
Many an Easter and Summer here
We'd kick around all the arcades
Befriend a few locals if any came near
Pool in the Beach Hotel
Smoking cigarettes by the harbour bogs
Truth or dare in the big sandy ditch
That crisp evening snap of burning logs
Ghost stories in the caravans
That shit scared walk home in pitch black
Nowadays you'd have the pints instead
In the Pier Head, sitting down the back
That coastal walk a whole world of beauty
Wild rocks below the grassy holes
Brutal and unforgiving expanse
Quiets the most unsettled soul
Down by the pier
It's always grey and windy here
This time of year
Or any other
The convent bell and rattlin' boats
Turbulent sea and heavy coats
I always think of Mullaghmore
In this sort of weather
You know you're nearly there
That echo of childhood excitement
The burrows filling up with hares
At the bungalow, our voices clattering
Nanny exasperated, would shout
"Get to Hell's flying gates!
And don't yous be hobnobbing in this house!"
Mischief was atop of the list
Many an Easter and Summer here
We'd kick around all the arcades
Befriend a few locals if any came near
Pool in the Beach Hotel
Smoking cigarettes by the harbour bogs
Truth or dare in the big sandy ditch
That crisp evening snap of burning logs
Ghost stories in the caravans
That shit scared walk home in pitch black
Nowadays you'd have the pints instead
In the Pier Head, sitting down the back
That coastal walk a whole world of beauty
Wild rocks below the grassy holes
Brutal and unforgiving expanse
Quiets the most unsettled soul
Down by the pier
It's always grey and windy here
This time of year
Or any other
The convent bell and rattlin' boats
Turbulent sea and heavy coats
I always think of Mullaghmore
In this sort of weather
Writer: Marty Byrne
Copyright: Lyrics © O/B/O DistroKid
Copyright: Lyrics © O/B/O DistroKid