[Verse 1] The mountain mist hides the shifting shape, Of wild manes flying in the long escape. Across the ridge where the Pictish stones, Are etched with spirits and with ancient bones. We have no scrolls to hold our simple claim, No ink to scratch a Howell-fashioned name. We have the paddock and the open range, And we thrive upon the rhythm of the change. The wind is calling and the horses hear, The only music that we hold as dear. We track the stallions by the valley light, And run like shadows in the coming night. [Chorus] Howey horseplay, wild and free, The spirit of the stallion, the only key. We are the tenders of the wind-blown track, With the strength of the mountains on our back. No laws to bind us, no pens to tie, Just the earth below and the open sky. The legacy is movement, bold and fast, A Howey promise meant to truly last. [Verse 2] The southern lords talk of law and line, But they don’t know the soul of the design. They sit in towers while we chase the dawn, Before the dew is gone upon the lawn. We feel the pulse beneath the leather skin, A deeper wisdom where the roots begin. A whisper in the ear, a gentle hand, To tame the fire running through the land. We are the masters of the untamed stride, With nowhere for the timid heart to hide. The Howey blood is running hot and wide, With nothing but the hunger to provide. [Chorus] Howey horseplay, wild and free, The spirit of the stallion, the only key. We are the tenders of the wind-blown track, With the strength of the mountains on our back. No laws to bind us, no pens to tie, Just the earth below and the open sky. The legacy is movement, bold and fast, A Howey promise meant to truly last. [Bridge] They see us coming as a storm of dust, A chaotic force that they can never trust. They want to measure what they cannot hold, And turn our spirit into something cold. But you cannot cage the lightning in a room, Or sweep our fire with a Howell broom. We are the motion that the world will need, When empires falter and the riders bleed. The Howey pace is set against the stars, Forging the future through the hidden scars. [Verse 3] The sun is dipping down behind the peak, The truth is hidden in the games we seek. We return the stallions to the hidden glade, The secret masters of the grand parade. The Howey story starts in mud and mire, But burns eternal with a holy fire. We are the breath of the rising morning heat, The pride of purpose in the pounding feet. Though history forgets the names of men, It remembers how we ran across the glen. [Chorus] Howey horseplay, wild and free, The spirit of the stallion, the only key. We are the tenders of the wind-blown track, With the strength of the mountains on our back. No laws to bind us, no pens to tie, Just the earth below and the open sky. The legacy is movement, bold and fast, A Howey promise meant to truly last. [Outro] The drumming fades into the mountain breeze, A whisper drifting through the ancient trees. The paddock sleeps under the silver moon, The Howey rhythm hums a haunting tune. The first three hundred years have passed away, Into the golden light of another day. The horse is stilled, the rider finds his rest, With the Howey spirit put to the test.
