As the mists part,
She climbs to the peak,
Of the mountain she calls her home.

With radiant red hair,
And a soft Scottish brogue,
She is the fairest maiden of them all.

But her dreams are not of husbands,
Or of children, nor a home to call her own;
But her dreams are mocked, by ignorant minds.

She climbs atop this mountain,
Each morning at daybreak,
To sing to the heavens.

Though she knows few songs,
It matters not what she sings;
So long as her voice can soar away from her home, her prison.

She dreams of singing for all to hear,
And hearing their words of praise.
But it all is naught, for her father forbids her art.

And so each morning she climbs,
And sings to the mist,
As she dreams of a life of music.