Nighean ruadh, your
lovely hair
Has more glamour I
declare
Than all the tresses
rare
'tween Killin and
Aberfeldy
Be they lint white,
brown or gold
Be they blacker than the
sloe
They are worth no more
to me
Than the melting flake
of snow
Her eyes are like the
gleam
O' the sunlight on the
stream
And the songs the
fairies sing
Seem like songs she
sings at milking
But my heart is full of
woe
For last night she bade
me go
And the tears begin to
flow
As I sing horee, horo