White men can't sing the blues

The Hill, His Heart

His hand in mine we walked upon
The glebe grass smooth and dry
And fool I was for then I asked
Where he would choose to lie.

One arm he raised and pointed up
Toward the hunter’s moon,
My ashes scatter there, he said
Aye there, on Tynron Doon.

And I looked up and saw that moon
Sat on that scalpit hill
Where the wind cuts like a whet-staned knife
Where the breckens never still,

Where the horseman searches ilka nicht
Where the ravens sup at noon,
My ashes scatter there, he said
Aye there, on Tynron Doon.

For he was wild and made of fire
Was free and fierce and red
And fierce I loved him, fierce I cried
The day that we were wed.

Though in this life I took his name
I never stole his heart,
His heart is aye upon the hill
The hill, the rock, his heart.