A chieftain, to the Highlands bound
Cries, Boatman, do not tarry
And I'll give thee a silver pound
To row us o'er the ferry
Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle
This dark and stormy water
O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle
And this Lord Ullin's daughter
And fast before her father's men
Three days we've fled together
For should he find us in the glen
My blood would stain the heather
His horsemen hard behind us ride
Should they our steps discover
Then who will cheer my bonny bride
When they have slain her lover
Out spoke the hardy Highland wight
I'll go, my cheif-I'm ready
It is not for your silver bright
But for your winsome lady
And by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry
To though the waves are raging white
I'll row you o'er the ferry
By this the storm grew loud apace
The water-wraith was shrieking
And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking
But still as wild blew the wind
And as the night grew drearer
Adown the glen rode armed men
Their trampling sounded nearer
"Oh haste thee, haste", the lady cries
Though tempest surround us gather
I'll meet the raging of the skies
But not an angry father
The boat had left a stormy land
A stormy sea before her
When, oh, too strong for human hand
The tempest gathered o'er her
And still they rowed amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing
Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore
His wrath was changed to wailing
For sore dismayed, through storm and shade
His child he did discover
One lovely hand stretched out for aid
And one was round her lover
"Come back, come back", he cried in grief
Across this stormy water
And I'll forgive your Highland chief
My daughter, oh, my daughter!
'Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore
Return or aid preventing
The waters wild went o'er his child
And he was left lamenting