In Scotland





Standing on grey cliffs, the howl of the cold wind,
The sounds of white waves crashing through the mist,
Rain slowly and softly descending,
The North Sea reached out, stretching to the end of time,

Then I smelled the smoke of peat on fire,
I thought of the colors of Scotland,
I thought of the taste of the warm barley.

I walked over the hills,
And then across the moors,
Till we met by the fire of the night,
Where peace spread forth,
Like the warm wool,
Spun by stout hearted people,
Spun by brave men, born of the North Sea.