The One

It's like a kiss from an angel. When I see you walking in that door. I've been blessed by a stranger. Came along for me to adore!. . It's like a kiss from an angel.

The Snowing Angels

The Man Who Salied Around His Soul

That's Really Super Supergirl.

Totally Natural

To Russia My Homeland

The Lost City Of Refuge

With history, your bluest grace. Falls apart, cascading down. Speak to me of beautiful hate. Of island chains swept with the tide. Tragedy ripening on.

The Truth

Speaking fast but talking slow. Because of this I'll never know. The answers. Concentrate and you will see. Everything that you can be. Can you find it?.

The Day The Air Turned Blue

Treorachadh

To The Weaver's Gin Ye Go

My heart was ance as blithe and free. As simmer days were lang;. But a bonie, westlin weaver lad. Has gart me change my sang.. . Chorus.-To the weaver's gin ye go, fair maids,.

Tibbie Fowler O' The Glen

Tibbie Fowler o' the glen, there's ower mony wooin' at her. Tibbie Fowler o' the glen, there's ower mony wooin' at her. Ten cam' east and ten cam' west and ten cam' sailin' ower the watter.

They Wounded Old Ireland

Come gather 'round you freeborn men. And draw your chairs to mine.. And I'll tell you of my country,. That you might understand.. And of the English armies,.

The Ramblin' Rover

Oh, there're sober men in plenty,. And drunkards barely twenty,. There are men of over ninety. That have never yet kissed a girl.. But gie me a ramblin' rover,.

The Parish Of Dunkeld

Oh, what a parish, a terrible parish;. Oh, what a parish is that o' Dunkeld.. They hangit their minister, droon'd their precentor,. Dang doun the steeple and fuddled the bell..

The Lea-rig

When o'er the hill the eastern star. Tells bughtin time is near, my jo,. And owsen frae the furrow'd field. Return sae dowf and weary O;. Down by the burn, where birken buds.

The Land O' The Leal

I'm wearin' awa', Jean. Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, Jean. I'm wearin' awa'. To the land o' the Leal. . There 's nae sorrow there, Jean. There 's neither cauld nor care, Jean.

The Irish Stranger

Pity the fate of a poor Irish stranger,. That wanders so far from his home,. That sighs for protection from want, woe, and danger,. That knows not from which way for to roam..

The Humours Of Whiskey

Let your quacks and newspapers be cutting their capers. About curing the vapors the scratch and the gout. With their medical potions, their serums and their lotions.

The Haughs Of Cromdale

As I came in by Auchindoun. A little wee bit frae the town. When to the Highlands I was bound. To view the Haughs of Cromdale. . I met a man in tartan trews.