The Daughter of the Golden Red Crescent

The daughter of the golden-red hair,
far from thee, my love, my pursuit;
the daughter of the golden-red hair,
my sorrow is far from thee

I appeared on the pool of Raasay
with my hand at the helm,
the wind unsteadily shakes the sail,
my heart is dumb, aching after your music,
today and tomorrow I think.

The mist of creeping on Dun Cana,
rugged rugged mountain and cotton,
the west wind on the face of the sea,
my hopes and hopes are gone.

The white break to the bottom of the wave,
the wind howling about the top of the mast,
but blowing a scalp is not my interest
to a battle that wakes up on a rough sea.

The daughter of the golden-red hair,
far from thee, my love, my pursuit;
the daughter of the golden-red hair,
my sorrow is far from thee.