The kite wheels stark in the ashen sky,
'neath boughs of yew, my sires do here lie.
From heath and mire the crooked spires soar.
The westering sun spills across the moor
the high cairn leads the true path
to all that has come to pass.

Walk with me lass through the vale of fearn,
beyond wall and cot is where you begin to learn,
of oaken boles and of the golden winter sun,
when roots run deep they cannot be undone.

High in the cragg, deep in the ghyll,
the old kings slumber and giants lie still.

All that has passed, the knowledge of yore,
shall never be lost, as long as its sung,
the gnosis of old, the form of the stars,
will always be told by those who seek truth.
As long as the gorse still comes to bloom,
as long as we observe the phases of the moon.

Go on my lass, may you find all you wish to seek
may your river of hope, never run weak.
May the winter sun guide you as you grow,
if you walk in oaken groves you'll never be alone.

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