Songs of a Roving Celt

The pibroch, man, the pibroch!
Upon the north wind beneath the list'ning sky?
A thousand voices rise to cheer it,
As proud the kilted Highlanders go by.

There's breath of moor and ben in it;
And sough of Highland glen in it,
There's battle roar by sea and shore
And tramp of marching men in it.

There's rune of ancient pride in it,
And dirge of men who died in it,
There's daring bold of heroes old,
And strength that kings defied in it.

There's feud of blood and hate in it,
And vengeance crying yet in it,
There's rousing song of woe and wrong
That we may ne'er forget in it.

There's note of haunting fears in it,
And mist of parting tears in it,
There's grief forlorn in anguish borne
A-down the fleeting years in it.

There's dash of sea and foam in it,
There's sigh of sons who roam in it,
There's blending strain of love and pain
That calls the wand'rer home in it.

The pibroch, man, the pibroch,
The pibroch, hear it calling
Afar amid the solitudes we know.
The silver dews of night are softly falling,
The stars are on the heather - let us go.

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