| The highlands and the lowlands
|
| Are the roots my father knows
|
| The holidays at Oban
|
| And the towns around Montrose
|
| But even as he sleeps
|
| They’re loading bombs into the hills
|
| And the waters in the lochs
|
| Can run deep but never still
|
| I’ve thought of having children
|
| But I’ve gone and changed my mind
|
| It’s hard enough to watch the news
|
| Let alone explain it to a child
|
| To cast your eye 'cross nature
|
| Over fields of rape and corn
|
| And tell him without flinching
|
| Not to fear where he’s been born
|
| Then someone sat me down last night
|
| And I heard Caruso sing
|
| He’s almost as good as Presley
|
| And if I only do one thing
|
| I’ll sing songs to my father
|
| I’ll sing songs to my child
|
| It’s time to hold your loved ones
|
| While the chains are loosed and the world
|
| Runs wild
|
| And even as we speak
|
| They’re loading bombs onto a white train
|
| How can we afford to ever sleep
|
| So sound again |