The Seven Sisters

    SEVEN Daughter had Lord Archibald，

    All children of one mother：

    You could not say in one short day

    What love they bore each other.

    A garland， of seven lilies， wrought！

    Seven sisters that together dwell；

    But he， bold Knight as ever fought，

    Their Father， took of them no thought，

    He loved the wars so well.

    Sing， mournfully， oh！ mournfully，

    The solitude of Binnorie！

    Fresh blows the wind， a western wind，

    And from the shores of Erin，

    Across the wave， a Rover brave

    To Binnorie is steering：

    Right onward to the Scottish strand

    The gallant ship is borne；

    The warriors leap upon the land，

    And hark！ the Leader of the band

    Hath blown his bugle horn.

    Sing， mournfully， oh！ mournfully，

    The solitude of Binnorie！

    Beside a grotto of their own，

    With boughs above them closing，

    The Seven are laid， and in the shade

    They lie like fawns reposing.

    But now， upstarting with affright

    At noise of man and steed，

    Away they fly to left， to right？

    Of your fair household， Father-knight，

    Methinks you take small heed！

    Sing， mournfully， oh！ mournfully，

    The solitude of Binnorie！

    Away the even fair Campbells fly，

    And， over hill and hollow，

    With menace proud， and insult loud，

    The youthful Rovers follow.

    Cried they， "Your Father loves to roam：

    Enough for him to find

    The empty house when he comes home；

    For us your yellow ringlets comb，

    For us be fair and kind！"

    Sing， mournfully， oh！ mournfully，

    The solitude of Binnorie！

    Some close behind， some side to side，

    Like clouds in stormy weather；

    They run， and cry， "Nay， let us die，

    And let us die together."

    A lake was near； the shore was steep；

    There never foot had been；

    They ran， and with a deperate leap

    Together plunged into the deep，

    Nor ever more were seen.

    Sing， mournfully， oh！ mournfully，

    The solitude of Binnorie！

    The stream that flows out of the lake，

    As through the glen it rambles，

    Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone，

    For those seven lovely Campbells.

    Seven little Islands， green and bare，

    Have risen from out the deep：

    The fishers say， those sisters fair，

    By faeries all are buried there，

    And there together sleep.

    Sing， mournfully， oh！ mournfully，

    The solitude of Binnorie！