I hear a lone piper
in the distance
the dirge he plays
a sad lament.
He has played that tune before
when I was younger
and then again not so long ago.
Now he plays more clearly
his mournful tune for me.
I hear the call of the crow
as it wings its way on high.
It has called before
when I was younger
and then again not so long ago.
Now its spirit cry I hear more clearly
for his call is to me.
Weep no more
let not a salty tear flow
nor let your sobs be heard.
I am the son of ancient Celts
heir to a thousand years of mist.
My soul soars above the green clover fields
dotted with brown thatched roof homes.
I hover near babbling streams
and play in the sea spray.
So let the piper’s dirge echo in the night
and let the winged messenger call
for I smell the peat fires of early dawn
and yearn for home.
