Proud stands Classiebawn on Mullaghmore head,
An elegant watchtower, guarding the flocks and herds
From the crashing Atlantic below.
The pastureland kisses her foundation stones.
The cows graze on, unimpressed by her graceful strength.
Alone she sits on the hill with her cows,
Lone but for a single cottage.
The grass has long since thatched over the village that stood,
But the castle remembers…

When the village asleep
Was a secret to none,
When it shrugged off the rain
And laughed in the sun
That now makes the grass grow
To feed the sheep
Who never knew
There was a secret to keep.

But the castle knows.
The castle remembers…

The hands of the people
Who made her tall
And lived by her side
In their own castles, small,
Where the women reigned
While the men were at work
Until the day Classiebawn
Had no more need
Of the ones who built her up so fine.

And they trudged their ways
To who knows where,
Leaving cliff and beach
And windswept air
And no trace
Of the village called Mullachgearr.

But the castle remembers.
The castle remembers.

• 

•