Coolin's face the night is creeping,
The banshee's wail is round us sweeping;
Blue eyes in Duin are dim with weeping,
Since thou art gone and ne'er returnest.
No more, no more, no more returning;
In peace nor in war is he returning;
Till dawns the great day of doom and burning,
MacCrimmon is home no more returning.
The breeze of the bens is gently blowing;
The brooks in the glens are softly flowing;
Where boughs their darkest shades are throwing,
Birds mourn for thee who ne'er returnest.
Its dirges of woe the sea is sighing,
The boat under sail unmov'd is lying;
The voice of waves in sadness dying
Say, thou art away and ne'er returnest.
We'll see no more MacCrimmon's returning
In peace nor in war is he returning
Till dawns the great day of woe and burning,
For him, there's no more returning.