Her glossy, yellow ringlets play.
Borne on a foamy-crested wave,
She reached amain the bounding prow,
Then clasping fast the Chieftain brave,
She, plunging, sought the deep below.
Ah! long beside thy feigned bier,
The monks the prayers of death shall say,
And long, for thee, the fruitless tear
Shall weep the Maid of Colonsay!