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