The silence of the winter’s night lay all along the glen :
The frosty snow throws sparkles on the fields and mountain fern,
Christmas Eve in the Miners’ village, along the banks of the Avonbeg:
They built up the fire for morning, took the lamps down from their peg:
Outside the stars were twinkling from the black sky overhead:
Gathering with their neighbours, as around the village the word was spread:
They lit their candles and the lamps and walked out through the night:
Crossing the ford at Barravore at least a hundred lights:
All along the valley, seven miles to Greenane Mass
To celebrate the birth of Christ and give thanks for all that passed:
Though the life they lived in the mountains was often hard and tough:
To those people of that time, the love of family was enough:
Their faith in God, their love of neighbours shone from their careworn faces:
A community of a hundred souls from all walks of life and places,
And when the Mass was over, up the valley so still and quiet,
Walking into history with the beacon of their hundred lights.
The years have passed; the mining village has crumbled into stone:
That generation has disappeared, now almost unknown:
Grass and trees growing over the hearthfire of those homes:
The wind sings through the valley, where one house stands all alone:
If you close your eyes and listen
to the sighing of the wind:
You may hear the faintest whisper
of their voices once again:
Maybe you may chance to pass the ford on a Christmas night:
Through the mists of time the reflection still, from those hundred lights:
A hundred lights, a hundred lights along that lonely glen!!
A hundred lights, a hundred lights of women, children, and men!
A hundred lights seen crossing, by the ford at Barravore:
A hundred lights on Christmas night, they’ll shine forever more.