Under ban be the nobles and friends who pained me so: who unawares came on my love, and overmastered him by guile.
Had there been twelve of his race and my Gregor at their head, my eyes would not be dim with tears, nor my child without its father.
They laid his head upon an oaken block: they poured his blood on the ground: oh had I there a cup I would drink of it my fill!
Oh that my father had been sick, and Colin in the plague, and all the Campbells in Balloch wearing manacles!
I would have put Gray Colin under lock and Black Duncan in a dungeon, though Ruthven’s daughter would be wringing her hands.
I went to the plains of Balloch, but rest found not there: I tore the hair from my head, the skin from my hands.
Had I the wings of the lark, the strength of Gregor in my arms, the highest stone in the castle would have been the one next the ground.
Oh that Finlarig were wrapped in flames, proud Taymouth lying in ashes, and fair-haired Gregor of the white hands in my embrace!
All others have apples: I have none, my sweet, lovely apple has the back of his head to the ground.