There's a man on the run
And he's never been caught
He moves at the speed
Of the power of thought

And he carries the news
In a gleam of his eye
That what you've been told
Is a kind of a lie

His enemies number fallen priests
Men of power and the crooked police
Cynics from the school of hard knocks
And a motley crowd of mis-matched other old crocks
Who're never ever gonna catch
The Connemara Fox

They chased him in Cong
They missed him in Maam
He was already gone
Never giving a damn

Wanted dead or alive
Up the back of of Dog's Bay
But by the time they arrived
He was leagues away