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