hear the pipes of the misty heiland and moorlands,
calling me home from oer the sea.
Mystic voices of oaken glens still in the mist
Speek of the purple due lit flame of hame.
The Droning of the torrents echo low,
Oer rocks and locks down sacred paths yet to be walked.
Yet sweeter is the treble of the rills played,
that fills my Scottish heart wi glee.
Sounds of the Scottish pibroch play within my
an old heiland melody.
Oer mountain and doon through stony
tae magic glens it ever boldly plays to this day.
Twas neer been sweeter music heard
forever meant free as the sweet breath of dewy air found there.
The proud pipes of Scotland are calling me
aye tis where I long tae be.
The grand pipes of Scotland are calling to me,
calling to me to come home from oer the sea.