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The heather turns to ash and grey
The mist is hanging on the hill
No warmth of sun to guide our way
The northern wind is sharp and chill
Oh high lands, wild and free
Where ancient waters meet the sea
(ahhhh) You hold the heart of me
The old stone walls are standing tall
Against the fading of the year
And in the quiet of the fall
Your ancient singing is all I hear
November mist upon the stone (ahhhh)