Lost Tribe of the Wicklow Mountains Christy Moore

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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 ravеrs, they could be Wiccans
Who squat above in high ruins

Cavorting at thousand-day hoolеys
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