Each streamlet and burn is sad on the hills;
The minstrels of the boughs are singing mournfully,
Since he departed and will never return.
He returns not, etc.
The night is clouded, sorrowful and sad,
The birlin under sail, but reluctant to depart,
The waves of the sea have a sound not happy,
Lamenting that he departed and will never return.
He returns not, etc.
Gather will not the tuneful race of Duin in the evening,