Last of the Bards

I was born in the heather
In my sweet Northern land
With a song in my ears
And a lute in my hand

And I’ve traveled the plains
Collecting the sounds
And the stories of friends
That I sing about now

And they call me the last of the bards
When I open my lungs
And I spill out my heart
They call me the last of the bards
When I sing my old fashioned songs

And I tried not to cry
When I left my sweet home
Where the old pipes were playing
My favourite song

And I still hear it now
On the cold Northern wind
And I sing it aloud
For the people I miss

And they call me the last of the bards
When I open my lungs
And I spill out my heart
They call me the last of the bards
When I sing my old fashioned songs

I was born in the heather
In my sweet Northern land
With a song in my ears
And a lute in my hand

And I’ve traveled the plains
Collecting the sounds
And the stories of friends
That I sing about now

And they call me the last of the bards
When I open my lungs
And I spill out my heart
They call me the last of the bards
When I sing my old fashioned songs