Verse 1 Come gather, lads and lassies, where the green meets the grey, Where the Atlantic is a thunder and the gulls cry out all day. There’s a ragged line of stone where the wild winds never sleep, And the ocean writes its stories on a page of sheer cliff steep. From Doolin to Lahinch the salt-spray fills the air, And the bones of old sailors keep a vigil standing there. Chorus Oh, raise your voice to the skyline, let your reckoning be heard, Stand with me on the lip of the world and listen to the curd. For the cliffs will sing your praises and they’ll whisper of your fall— The Moher calls the brave and fools alike, she’ll cradle and she’ll maul. Verse 2 There’s O’Brien’s watchful tower like a knight upon his post, Where the fog wraps round the lantern and the sea gives up its ghost. We’ve left our footprints in the turf, we’ve carved our names in stone, But the waves will wash tomorrow what our hands have made their own. Old mothers tell their children of a chest beneath the foam, And the hearts that went to sea with a promise never home. Chorus Oh, raise your voice to the skyline, let your reckoning be heard, Stand with me on the lip of the world and listen to the curd. For the cliffs will sing your praises and they’ll whisper of your fall— The Moher calls the brave and fools alike, she’ll cradle and she’ll maul. Bridge Hear the gannet’s lonely wailing, see the storm-raw colors fly, Watch the tide like a giant turn, see the spray like silver sigh. Mind your step, oh gentle stranger, respect the margin wide— For beauty is a hungry thing when it meets the turning tide. Verse 3 There’s lovers on the clifftop who make vows against the gale, And farmers down in the valley who swear they hear a tale. The Burren keeps its secrets where the limestone meets the sea, And the moon lays down her pillow for the ghosts of memory. So pass the cup and sing this night of wild cliffs, salt, and song, For the earth will take our stories, but the sea will carry on. Chorus (bursting) Oh, raise your voice to the skyline, let your reckoning be heard, Stand with me on the lip of the world and listen to the curd. For the cliffs will sing your praises and they’ll whisper of your fall— The Moher calls the brave and fools alike, she’ll cradle and she’ll maul. Outro (soft) So when your road grows weary and your feet forget to roam, Remember where the horizon breaks and you can call it home. Edge of the world, my heart, you keep your secrets deep and sure— I’ll meet you where the ocean shouts and the cliffs are standing pure.