Across the hills of Tweedsmuir green,
Where silver rivers wind unseen,
The heather blooms in purple light,
Beneath the sky so vast and bright.
The wind drifts softly through the glen,
Past ancient stones and quiet den,
While curlews call across the moor,
Their lonely song from shore to shore.
The Tweed begins its journey there,
Through valleys wild and mountain air,
A ribbon sparkling, cool and clear,
The heart of Tweedsmuir beating near.
When evening paints the hills in gold,
The land recalls the tales of old,
And stars awaken one by one,
To watch the day at last be done.
O Tweedsmuir, land of peace and sky,
Where clouds and soaring eagles fly,
Your beauty lingers in the soul,
A timeless place that makes us whole.
