_His linen robes are pure and white,
For Fergus More must die to-night!_

'Twas Fergus More rode o'er the hill,
Come back from foreign wars,
His horse's feet were clattering sweet
Below the pitiless stars;
And in his heart he would repeat--
"O never again I'll roam;
All weary is the going forth,
But sweet the coming home!"

_His linen robes are pure and white,
For Fergus More must die to-night!_

He saw the blaze upon his hearth
Come gleaming down the glen;
For he was fain for home again,
And rode before his men--
"'Tis many a weary day," he'd sigh,
"Since I would leave her side;
I'll never more leave Scotland's shore
And yon, my dark-eyed bride."

_His linen robes are pure and white,
For Fergus More must die to-night!_

So dreaming of her tender love,
Soft tears his eyes would blind--