The River Tweed begins its flight
In Lowther Hills so wild and bright,
From Tweed’s Well high among the land,
It winds eastward through Scotland’s strand.
For ninety-seven miles it flows,
Past hills where purple heather grows,
Through Borders valleys, green and wide,
With shining waters as its guide.
By Peebles, Melrose, Kelso fair,
Its gentle currents wander there,
While many streams both great and small
Come rushing to its welcome call.
The Whiteadder and Blackadder too,
The Teviot and the Gala blue,
Join the Tweed upon its way
Towards the North Sea far away.
A river famed both far and near,
For salmon fishing every year,
Drawing visitors from distant lands
To cast their lines along its banks and sands.
The ancient Celtic people knew
A name that still remains as true,
For “border” was its meaning then,
A link between the realms of men.
O River Tweed, so clear and grand,
You shape the heart of Borderland,
Your waters, history, and beauty wide
Will through the ages still abide.
