Here are the accurate lyrics. It's griddle bread actually. You make it in a kind of skillet over a fire. Google it.


CAMPFIRE IN THE DARK

My father rises early and makes a sup of tea
He lights the kitchen stove and then he calls me
His days are often empty, he's nothing much to do
So he sits and tells me stories of the travelling life he knew

In the evening they would meet in lonely country lanes
A field away you'd hear a collie bark
As they passed the time away with talk about the day
Standing 'round the campfire in the dark
Standing 'round the campfire in the dark

My mother likes the house, the hot water and the rooms
It's warm in the winter and she's handy with the broom
Sometimes she makes colcannon, more often griddle bread
But there's a hunger deep inside her for her travelling life that's dead.

In the evening she would lift the black pot from the coals
A bit to eat she always would remark
There'd be vessels left to clean while children could be seen
Playing 'round the campfire in the dark
Playing 'round the campfire in the dark

We'd go down to the pool hall to chat up the town beors
Sometimes at the discos we can't get past the doors
We're still tinkers to them and it's thrown at our ears
We're still the awful strangers after all these years
I think about my own life and the way that it will be
An Escort van, a bit of dealing, a wife and family
Now Thursday I collect the Dole; Friday, pitch and toss
And on the site I think about the travellers' ways we've lost

And I wish that I could rise and wash the sleep out of these eyes
And listen to the sweet song of the lark
And I wish that I could be in a campfire company
With the sound of horses moving in the dark
With the sound of horses moving, in the dark