From the island of the mountains
To the hills across argyll
With a heart that is so broken
With every weary mile

And he'll never hear the whisper
Of his hebridean wind
Or the thunder of the ocean
As the minch comes tumbling in

He's holding out
He's holding out
On the frayed edge of time
On the borderline

And he rests the tired shepherd
Where the gentle devon flows
But inside there is a yearning
That no one really knows

And in the quiet of the evening
He would sing his island songs
For the ashes of his fathers
And the children of his sons

These chains have not been broken
And our freedom is not won
And though many words are spoken
We still wander weary on
And there are a hundred questions
And a thousand reasons why
But our answers they are somewhere
In the hebridean sky