He does not know the language, but he understands the job,
And he is not feared of hard work, or of pain.
Away, lad! Away to me!
He can climb so close to Heaven that the hill becomes the sky,
And the highland winds sing come away to me.
Through the blood of all his fathers runs the ken of ebb and flow,
And a heart so pure, he walks in worlds between.
Away, lad! Away to me!
All his mothers wield the magic to hold strong and stand their ground.
May those generations come away to me.
He's the land and not the language; he's the work and not the land.
He's five hundred years of life, both wild and strange.
Away, lad! Away to me!
He's the hand of God on Nature, working through the hand of Man.
All Creation dances come away to me.