The Hills of Home ©

The foot prints of my parents
Are printed deep in me,
The green hills and the heather
Are where I long to be.

I hear the curlew calling
Across the moors at night,
I see an open window
A light is shining bright.

I wonder in the twilight
The moon is riding high,
A moment, then a memory
Of the days gone by.

I hear a voice: I see a face
Far from the distant past,
A precious moment in the night
I try to make it last.

Reaching out to shadows
Voices in the night,
Waiting for a moonbeam
Just to put things right.

I left my native Scotland
I wandered far and wide,
Scotland is my homeland
I cherish that with pride.