Echoes of the Exile

In the shadow of the ancient oaks, where the river meets the sea, I wander far from emerald shores, lost in memory. The wind carries tales of kin and clan, from the hills of old Derry, Whispers of the old ones calling me home across the weary.

Oh, rise ye winds of the western wild, carry my heart away, Through the mist and the heather, to the land where the bagpipes play. No chains of the exile can hold this soul, we'll dance in the jig once more, In the glen where the fairies weave their spells, forever and evermore.

The harp strings hum with forgotten songs, of battles fierce and won, Heroes bold on the battlefield, under the pale moon's run. Yet sorrow clings like morning dew, to the stones of standing rings, I dream of feasts in the great hall, where the chieftain's voice still sings.

Oh, rise ye winds of the western wild, carry my heart away, Through the mist and the heather, to the land where the bagpipes play. No chains of the exile can hold this soul, we'll dance in the jig once more, In the glen where the fairies weave their spells, forever and evermore.

Now the path unfolds before my feet, through valleys deep and green, The pipes will call me back to rest, where the ancient fires gleam. No more the stranger in foreign lands, I'll claim my rightful place, In the circle of the standing stones, under the sky's embrace.

Oh, rise ye winds...

... carry me home...

...