I
hear the pipes of the misty heiland and moorlands,
calling me home from o’er the sea.
Mystic voices of oaken glens still in the mist
of time,
Speek of the purple due lit flame of hame.
The Droning of the torrents echo low,
O’er rocks and locks down sacred paths yet to be walked.
Yet sweeter is the treble of the rills played,
that fills my Scottish heart wi’ glee.
Sounds of the Scottish pibroch play within my
soul,
an old heiland melody.
O’er mountain and doon through stony
brae,
tae magic glens it ever boldly plays to this day.
‘Twas ne’er been sweeter music heard
nor played,
forever meant free as the sweet breath of dewy air found there.
The proud pipes of Scotland are calling me
hame,
aye t’is where I long tae be.
The grand pipes of Scotland are calling to me,
calling to me to come home from o’er the sea. |
