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From the island of the mountains |
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To the hills across argyll |
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With a heart that is so broken |
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With every weary mile |
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And he'll never hear the whisper |
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Of his hebridean wind |
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Or the thunder of the ocean |
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As the minch comes tumbling in |
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He's holding out |
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He's holding out |
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On the frayed edge of time |
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On the borderline |
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And he rests the tired shepherd |
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Where the gentle devon flows |
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But inside there is a yearning |
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That no one really knows |
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And in the quiet of the evening |
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He would sing his island songs |
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For the ashes of his fathers |
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And the children of his sons |
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These chains have not been broken |
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And our freedom is not won |
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And though many words are spoken |
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We still wander weary on |
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And there are a hundred questions |
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And a thousand reasons why |
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But our answers they are somewhere |
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In the hebridean sky |
