| You’ll find me sitting at this table
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| With my friend Fin and my friend John
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| My friend Murdaney tells us stories
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| Of things long gone, long gone
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| And we may take a glass together
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| The whisky makes it all so clear
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| It fires our dulled imaginations
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| And I feel so near, so near
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| I feel so near to the howling of the winds
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| I feel so near to the crashing of the waves
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| I feel so near to the flowers in the fields
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| I feel so near
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| The old man looks out to the islands
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| He says this place is endless thin
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| There’s no real distance here to mention
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| We might all fall in, all fall in
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| No distance to the spirits of the living
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| No distance to the spirits of the dead
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| And as he turned his eyes were shining
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| And he proudly said, proudly said
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| I feel so near to the howling of the winds
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| I feel so near to the crashing of the waves
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| I feel so near to the flowers in the fields
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| I feel so near
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| So we build our tower constructions
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| There to mark our place in time
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| We justify our great destructions
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| As on we climb, on we climb
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| Now the journey doesn’t seem to matter
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| The destination’s faded out
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| And gathering out along the headland
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| I hear the children shout, children shout
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| I feel so near to the howling of the winds
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| I feel so near to the crashing of the waves
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| I feel so near to the flowers in the fields
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| I feel so near |