| Song | Galway Bay |
| Artist | John McDermott |
| Album | When I Grow Too Old To Dream |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| Galway bay:to uncle ed, boston, mass. | |
| If you ever go across the sea to ireland | |
| Then maybe at the closing of your day | |
| You will sit and watch the moon rise over claddagh | |
| And see the sun go down on galway bay | |
| Just to hear again the ripple of the trout stream | |
| The women in the meadow making hay | |
| And to sit beside a turf fire in the cabin | |
| And watch the barefoot gossoons at their play | |
| For the breezes blowing o'er the seas from ireland | |
| Are perfumed by the heather as they bloom | |
| And the women in the uplands diggin' praties | |
| Speak a language that the strangers do not know | |
| For the stranger came and tried to teach us their way | |
| They scorned us just for being what we are | |
| But they might as well go chasing after moonbeams | |
| Or light a penny candle from a star | |
| And if there's going to be a life hereafter | |
| And somehow i am sure there's going to be | |
| I will ask my god to let me make my heaven | |
| In that dear land across the irish sea |
| Galway bay: to uncle ed, boston, mass. | |
| If you ever go across the sea to ireland | |
| Then maybe at the closing of your day | |
| You will sit and watch the moon rise over claddagh | |
| And see the sun go down on galway bay | |
| Just to hear again the ripple of the trout stream | |
| The women in the meadow making hay | |
| And to sit beside a turf fire in the cabin | |
| And watch the barefoot gossoons at their play | |
| For the breezes blowing o' er the seas from ireland | |
| Are perfumed by the heather as they bloom | |
| And the women in the uplands diggin' praties | |
| Speak a language that the strangers do not know | |
| For the stranger came and tried to teach us their way | |
| They scorned us just for being what we are | |
| But they might as well go chasing after moonbeams | |
| Or light a penny candle from a star | |
| And if there' s going to be a life hereafter | |
| And somehow i am sure there' s going to be | |
| I will ask my god to let me make my heaven | |
| In that dear land across the irish sea |
| Galway bay: to uncle ed, boston, mass. | |
| If you ever go across the sea to ireland | |
| Then maybe at the closing of your day | |
| You will sit and watch the moon rise over claddagh | |
| And see the sun go down on galway bay | |
| Just to hear again the ripple of the trout stream | |
| The women in the meadow making hay | |
| And to sit beside a turf fire in the cabin | |
| And watch the barefoot gossoons at their play | |
| For the breezes blowing o' er the seas from ireland | |
| Are perfumed by the heather as they bloom | |
| And the women in the uplands diggin' praties | |
| Speak a language that the strangers do not know | |
| For the stranger came and tried to teach us their way | |
| They scorned us just for being what we are | |
| But they might as well go chasing after moonbeams | |
| Or light a penny candle from a star | |
| And if there' s going to be a life hereafter | |
| And somehow i am sure there' s going to be | |
| I will ask my god to let me make my heaven | |
| In that dear land across the irish sea |