By Steve Earle

The Westwind was born at the foot of a mountain
And she whispers some something so gentle and true
That no one can hear her but the listening creatures
For they love her and they always have known when she's blue
And she's still not much more than a breeze when she kisses
The autumn leaves — falling all crimson and gold
And she glides down the gap and rolls over the plateau
And she knows the way well — for she lived there of old
The farther she ventures from the sheltering mountain
The stronger her heart beats and the faster she goes
Till she reaches the ocean — the mother of mothers
Who caresses our lady and welcomes her home
And she feeds her on gales from the four far-flung corners
And then sends her away just as soon as she's strong
By the time she makes Ireland no mountain can tame her
And fiddlers and poets celebrate her in song