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 travelled the plains
collecting the sounds
and the stories of 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 the call 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 travelled the plains
collecting the sound
and the stories of friends
that I sing about now
And the call the last of the Bards
when I open my lungs
and I spill out of my heart
They call me the last of the Bards
when I sing my old fashioned songs
La la la, la la la, ...
