There’s a clean wind blowing
Over hill-flower and peat, 
Where the bell-heather’s growing,
And the brown burn flowing, 
And the ghost shadows going
Down the glen on stealthy feet. 
There’s a clean wind blowing,
And the breath of it is sweet.

There's a clean wind blowing.
And the world holds but three:
The purple peak against the sky, 
The master-wind, and me.
The moor-birds are tossing
Like ships upon the sea;
There’s a clean wind blowing, 
Free!

There’s a clean wind blowing
Untainted of the town,
A fair hitting foeman
With his glove flung down.
Will you take his lordly challenge
And the gauntlet that he throws, 
And come forth among the heather 
Where the clean wind blows?