| I walk into a corner bar, it says Lynch above the door
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| I had just arrived in Miltown to frolic there once more
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| I see a Cavan man expatriot who now resides in old Oslo
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| And he’s holdin to an old friend’s hand as his mate sings loud and slow
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| When they’re done we reminisce on Shetland back in ninety seven
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| Where we met aboard a ferry bound for five days of folk heaven
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| Siobahn and John start jiggin, push and pulls from box and bow
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| And Peter reaches for his drum to punctuate the flow
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| And the tide flows into Miltown, they come from far and near
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| The tide flows into Miltown, this time every year
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| I sit next to two I’ve known since I first came of age
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| Each Tuesday night in Pigtown we’d play from O’Niell’s page
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| We raise our jars, it’s July fourth, so I guess they’re Yankees still
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| Though they’ve moved back to Cork now, up Military Hill
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| And the tide flows into Miltown, we come from far and near
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| The tide flows into Miltown, this time every year
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| I stayed this time on Spanish Point with a Nashville guy I know
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| You can swim in quiet water there, in the tide pools down below
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| But there were too many toasts to raise, to many tunes to play
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| I only saw that coast while walking home in the dawning of the day
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| I’ve seen these folks in Donegal, New York and Tennessee
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| Since a fleagh in seventy six made a believer out of me James Kelly made a point back then, said «what's the point of sleepin,
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| There’ll be time for that when we get done with the company we’re keepin»
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| And the tide flows into Miltown, we come from far and near
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| The tide flows into Miltown, this time every year
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| And the tide flows into Miltown, of smiles and tunes and tears
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| The tide flows into Miltown, bring the wife and kids next year |