Silent, nearing cold,
Yet the scars they show are bold,
And warmth is in your heart,
Words seem slow,
They're there, although,
What can one say or do?
But sing,
But sing the tune of your soul,
The pipes are far away,
The glens and bonnie braes,
The snow is hushed,
The flowers wither,
In an ancient tongue,
Our ancestors sung,
Of summers in the meadow,
Of life as bright and mellow,
So I'll sing these verses,
Your favourite verses,
I'll sing them one more time,
And where the church is,
My soul it searches,
To sing to you one more line,
'Tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide,
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