Come simmer, come winter, it’s a’ ane to me,
For the dark gloom o’ falsehood sae clouds my sad soul,
That cheerless for aye is the Harper o’ Mull.
“I wander the glens and the wild woods alone,
In their deepest recesses I make my sad moan;
My harp’s mournfu’ melody joins in the strain,
While sadly I sing o’ the days that are gane.
Tho’ Rosie is faithless she’s no the less fair,
And the thocht o’ her beauty but feeds my despair,
Wi’ painfu’ remembrance my bosom is full,