A Lady from the Highlands, what should I give to thee?
The softness o' the Northern brogue, like a gale among the trees?
The harshness o' the Eastern wind, the heather an' the hills,
The clash o' swords on shieldin', the blood scent from the kills?

The sweet seduction o' the South, the wind that treason speaks,
The wind that turns its' coat an' draws its' sword among the weak?
The salt taste o' the Western wind, with magic in its' call,
The wind ye follow ev'rywhere - or not pursue at all?

The taste o' Highland Winters, the silver in its' call,
The heaps o' snow among yer house, the draft in Castle Halls,
The roarin' fire in the hearth, the Bard who strings his lute,
The scent o' whisky on yer breath, the soft tones o' the flute?

The freshness o' the Highland Springs, a beast that's bar'ly tamed,
The roarin' streams turn'd treacherous, the bogs that're there to maim,
The flight o' hawks on azure skies, the deers in forests green,
The power born anew, the feelin' that the world is more than seen?

The flightiness o' Summer there, with patterns from the Spring,
The scorchin' smell o' heather burnt, the nightingale who sings,
The icy draft o' Eastern winds, the Place-that-has-no-name,
The dark, deep lochs that frightens ye, and calls ye all the same?

The beauty o' the Highland Falls, the heather's reddish hue,
The leaves that falls all golden-red, to leave place for the new,
The honey that is gather'd all, the coarse sound o' the horn,
That gathers ye to deer-huntin', the comin' o' the storm?

I canna give ye seasons from the Highlands, or at all,
I canna give ye magic for it heeds not to my call,
Just honey laced with heather, an' whisky aged in oak,
A roarin' fire in the hearth an' a soft Northern brogue.