The Ballad of The Empty Glen 1

The heather bloomed, the red deer ran, The rivers sang so free, But sorrow rode on bitter winds, Across the moor and sea. For men in halls with gold and land, Had signed the clans away, And mothers wept for hearths now cold, At dawning of the day. The cattle lowed, the blackthorn swayed, As flames rose to the sky, The homes of ancient blood and bone Were left to burn and die. The lairds had turned to southern coin, To sheep and profit fair, And cast their people to the waves, To perish in despair. The boats lay heavy on the tide, Bound west for foreign shore, A sorrowed throng, the young and old, Would see their land no more. The bagpipes wailed a last farewell, A curse upon the few, Who sold their kin for silver bright, And broke the world they knew. The winds still howl in empty glens, The stones lie bare and worn, No laughter rings, no children play, Where once the clans were born. Yet in the hearts of exiled sons, A Highland flame still glows, And dreams of home, though lost in time, Still whisper through the snows. Oh, heed the tale, ye wandering folk, Who bear the Gaelic tongue, Remember well the hills that wept, When greed’s cold hand was strong. For though the past is drowned in mist, And silence claims the land, The Highland soul will rise again, Like waves upon the sand.