| I was born in the heather
|
| In my sweet Northern land
|
| With a song in my ears
|
| And a lute in my hand
|
| And I’ve traveled the plains
|
| Collecting the sounds
|
| And the stories of friends
|
| That I sing about now
|
| And they call me the last of the bards
|
| When I open my lungs
|
| And I spill out my heart
|
| They call me the last of the bards
|
| When I sing my old fashioned songs
|
| And I tried not to cry
|
| When I left my sweet home
|
| Where the old pipes were playing
|
| My favourite song
|
| And I still hear it now
|
| On the cold Northern wind
|
| And I sing it aloud
|
| For the people I miss
|
| And they call me the last of the bards
|
| When I open my lungs
|
| And I spill out my heart
|
| They call me the last of the bards
|
| When I sing my old fashioned songs
|
| I was born in the heather
|
| In my sweet Northern land
|
| With a song in my ears
|
| And a lute in my hand
|
| And I’ve traveled the plains
|
| Collecting the sounds
|
| And the stories of friends
|
| That I sing about now
|
| And they call me the last of the bards
|
| When I open my lungs
|
| And I spill out my heart
|
| They call me the last of the bards
|
| When I sing my old fashioned songs |