The highlands and the lowlands are the routes my father knows,
the holidays at Oban and the towns around Montrose,
but even as he sleeps, they`re loading bombs into the hills,
and the waters in the lochs can run deep, but never still.
I`ve thought of having children, but I`ve gone and changed my mind.
It`s hard enough to watch the news, let alone explain it to a child,
to cast your eye cross nature, over fields of rape and corn,
and tell him without flinching not to fear where he`s been born.
Then someone sat me down last night, and I heard Caruso sing.
He`s almost as good as Presley, and if I only do one thing,
I`ll sing songs to my father, I`ll sing songs to my child.
It`s time to hold your loved ones while the chains are loose,
and the world runs wild.
But even as we speak, they`re loading bombs onto a white train.
How can we afford to ever sleep, so sound again.