The tribesmen of the highlands in Scottish weather
As they walk though the mountainous air that only does them better
Than any city smog could know 
And people think they know better so
They denigrate what seems like dust
But there’s something in their freedom that I trust
As they scream their battle cry
And head into war to die 
As they face a foreign foe
For the kingdom that they know 
Living on the brilliant expanse
Of the wind that makes the leaves dance
And I don’t want to make no enemy 
Out of grey modernity
And what those people have become
Mixing genes with ancestors that have known some 
Of the brutal blow of a sword 
Or the things they think of for which there is not a word
To describe the horror inflict
And the end may come quick 
Or it may come slow
But I just wanna say I don’t think they know
What they profess to 
And I see the Celt in you