At the edge of the world, I graze my sheep,
Where storm clouds swirl, and the valley cuts deep.
I’ve farmed this land for fifty years,
Calloused my hands on shovels and shears.
Raised my cattle as best I could,
A constant battle in thick bog mud.
But a soaring hawk, a hare on the run,
An early walk with the rising sun.
A horse’s flanks as they heave and steam,
Frost on the banks of a snow-melt stream.
Make my old heart beat to the rhythm of the farm,
The low pig grunts and the cows in the barn.
Till I’m ash and dust, till I’m dead and gone,
I’ll be in these hills, and I’ll sing this song.