The Isle of Skye awaits your coming
The tides of Portree Bay are turning.
When you alight upon the shore
A welcome’s there at every door.
The coronach of seagulls in the bay
The pipes that for those lost souls play.
The corries where the wild flowers grow
The River Haultin’s trickle an’ flow.
Sombre of aspect, dour and graven
The Cuillin Hills, Red Hill, and Blaven.
The white-tailed eagle’s homeward flight
Those endless hours of summer light.
When every prospect from land or sea
Would set both heart and spirit free.
Bran steps, it’s said, from glen to glen
What myths are told of beasts and men.
When craws grow raucous in their flight
The selkies cast their skins at night.
And should you meet one on your path
Be wary what might come to pass…
That warp and weft of Highland life
Proved worthy of men’s sacrifice.
The rock stands fast against the tide
Water-horses with the dolphins ride.
The red fire of the sun returns
Wild heather on the moorland burns.