She'll wound when she goes past;
Then weariness will come upon
The fins that flicked so fast;
And one by one the lifeless things
Will on the stones be cast.

O Mairi Dhu, you gave yon sprain
To poor Dun Para's arm;
It is myself would have the work
Undoing of the harm--
I'd twist around the three-ply cord
Well-knotted o'er the charm.

Your eye you'd put on yon sweet babe
O' Lachlan o' Loch-Glass;
He'd fill the wooden ladle where
The dead and living pass--
And with the water, silver-charmed,
He'd save his little lass.

I'll lock my cheese within the chest,
My butter I will hide;
I'll bar the byre at milking time,
Although you'll wait outside--
You'll maybe go another way--
Who'll care for you to bide?