(Verse 1) My hands are the bark of the mountain pine, Rough with the resin and the passing of time. They trace the veins of the valley floor, And knock on the wood of the Highland door. The chisel sings a song of the North, Of the birth-place of Valour, the country of Worth. (Chorus) For my heart’s in the Highlands, though my hands are here, Carving the spirit of the wild-roaming deer. With every stroke, the mountain wakes, In the grain of the wood, the morning breaks. My heart’s in the Highlands, where the torrents flow, And my hands hold the secrets that the forests know. (Verse 2) The woodcarver’s palm is a map of the gale, Of the mist on the strath and the snow on the vale. I carve out the silence, I carve out the light, I carve out the stars of a Highland night. The wood is the body, the heart is the soul, And the touch of the maker makes the broken whole. (Bridge) Farewell to the cities, farewell to the plain, I am bound to the timber, I am bound to the rain. The woodcarver’s hands are the roots of the tree, Reaching for mountains that call out to me. (Chorus) For my heart’s in the Highlands, though my hands are here, Carving the spirit of the wild-roaming deer. With every stroke, the mountain wakes, In the grain of the wood, the morning breaks. My heart’s in the Highlands, where the torrents flow, And my hands hold the secrets that the forests know. (Verse 3) The knots in the timber are stories of old, Of battles forgotten and legends retold. My thumb finds the hollow where the eagle has flown, And the warmth of the wood turns the mountain to stone. I shape every curve with a prayer for the glen, To bring back the spirit of the Highland men. (Verse 4) The shavings fall soft like the winter’s first frost, Recovering beauty that the ages have lost. My hands are the vessels, the wood is the wine, Poured from the peaks where the rowan trees twine. And when the work’s finished, the Highland is near, Held in the timber, and held in the tear. (Bridge) Farewell to the cities, farewell to the plain, I am bound to the timber, I am bound to the rain. The woodcarver’s hands are the roots of the tree, Reaching for mountains that call out to me. (Chorus) For my heart’s in the Highlands, though my hands are here, Carving the spirit of the wild-roaming deer. With every stroke, the mountain wakes, In the grain of the wood, the morning breaks. My heart’s in the Highlands, where the torrents flow, And my hands hold the secrets that the forests know.
