The challenge

There's a clean wind blowing

Over hill-flower and peat,

Where the bell-heather's growing,

And the brown burn flowing,

And the ghost shadows going

Down the glen on stealthy feet.

There's a clean wind blowing,

And the breath of it is sweet.

There's a clean wind blowing.

And the world holds but three:

The purple peak against the sky,

The master-wind, and me.

The moor-birds are tossing

Like ships upon the sea;

There's a clean wind blowing,

Free!

There's a clean wind blowing

Untainted of the town,

A fair hitting foeman

With his glove flung down.

Will you take his lordly challenge

And the gauntlet that he throws,

And come forth among the heather

Where the clean wind blows?