Over Annach Mór bog rises Nephin Mór mountain
Between them, Lough Conn and the winding River Moy
Beyond them lie Achill and the broad Atlantic Ocean
To my back, Sliabh Gamph where I rambled as a boy

There in the middle of a midsummer's evening
I see all the geese and the crows flocking home
When a ball of red fire sinks down behind Nephin
Putting itself out on the wild Atlantic foam

Carts crackle and crank behind cross-eyed asses
Carrying their poor masters to tea and to rest
When a clamor of a working day now is at an ending
And the sinking sun disappears down in the west

I sat cross-legged playing an old accordian
In the middle of a field that was facing the bog
Playing slow airs that no one's ever heard of
And the cold River Moy covers Nepin in fog

The back of beyond is a place where I love to be
Far from New York City, the concrete and pain
Where the air, it is so clean, and people are astounding
It's there that my thoughts and dreams will remain

Over Annach Mór bog rises Nephin Mór mountain
Between them, Lough Conn and the winding River Moy
Beyond them lie Achill and the broad Atlantic Ocean
To my back, Sliabh Gamph where I rambled as a boy