In war or peace, shall return Mac Crimmon;
No more, no more, no more for ever,
Shall love or gold bring back Mac Crimmon.
The breeze on the hills is mournfully blowing,
The brook in the hollow is plaintively flowing,
The warblers, the soul of the grove, are mourning
For Mac Crimmon that’s gone with no hope of returning.
No more, etc.
The tearful clouds the stars are veiling,
The sails are spread, but the boat is not sailing,