The poacher and his daughter throw soft shadows on the water in the night.

A thin moon slips behind them as they pull the net with no betraying light.

And later on the coast road, I meet them and the old man winks a smile.

And who am I to fast deny the right to take a fish once in a while?

I walk with them, they wish me luck when I slip out on the Sunday from the kyle.

And from the church I hear them singing as the ship moves sadly from the pier.

Oh, poacher's daughter, Sundat best, two hundred brave souls share the farewell

tear.



There's a house on the hillside, where the drifting sands are born.

Lay down and let the slow tide wash me back to the land where I came from.

Where the mountain men are kings and the sound of the piper counts for

everything.



Did my tour, did my duty. I did all they asked of me.

Died in the trenches and at Alamein...died in the Falklands on T.V.

Going back to the mountain kings where the sound of the piper counts for

everything.



Long generations from the Isles sent to tread the foreign miles

where the spiral ages meet. Felt naked dust beneath their feet.

Future sun called winds to blow and the past and present hard-eyed crow

flew hunting high and circling low over blackened plains of Eden.



There's a child and a woman praying for an end to the mystery.

Hoping for a word in a letter fair wind-blown from across the sea

to where the mountain men are kings and the sound of the piper counts for

everything.



There's a house on the hillside, where the drifting sands are born.

Lay down and let the slow tide wash me back to the land where I came from.

Where the mountain men are kings and the sound of the piper counts for

everything.

Where the real mountain men are kings and the sound of that piper counts for

everything.



Feel the naked dust beneath my toes while the future sun calls winds to blow

and the past and present black-eyed crow flies hunting high and circling low

between dream mountains of our Eden