Song of the Highlander

These green hills and vales still whisper,

Sighing their longing through the morning mists:

Longing for the days of kings, when men would rise,

Father, son, and brother, shoulder to shoulder,

And carve in letter large, with their great swords,

Their names in the memories of friend and foe.

These old halls, dark now,

Still ring with the sound of bards

Making man truly immortal,

The mortal warrior become a god;

At least, 'til the mead ran dry

And the greybeard hung his shield high in the rafters.

Should you ride through the wild hills of the North,

Take your pause atop any bluff,

And you shall hear, far away but very clear,

The drums and pipes of the sons of the thistle,

And all passers-by shall know that the Highlander lives,

And shall live evermore.

His cry echoes through this ancient place,

Calling brother and clan to his side.

For today is a day of shining swords

And shattered shields.

Today is a day where tyranny flees with the night,

And freedom rises with the dawn.

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