Son of Domhnall of the Shroud,
Piper, like my kind before me,
To the household of MacLeod.
Death is in the seed of Cruimin—
All my music is a wail;
Early graves await the poets
And the pipers of the Gael.
Samhain gleans the golden harvests
Duly in their tide and time,
But my body’s fruit is blasted