The highland for any goat, you could never replace
For in the heart of this graising creature has a special place
To run and jump in the scottish cold, leaping in the silt
The greatest breeze to hit your cheeks and blow right up your kilt
Oh the sound of bagpipes playing there early in the morn
It’s such a reson to never be, morbid or forlorne
To swig a mature brew of scotch from 1759
A beautiful aroma, crisp flavour a drink thats so devine
For this goat is happiest, inside of his home
The scottish highlands, of which he can, live in peace and roam




