The pipes in the streets
were playing bravely,
The marching lads went by,
With merry hearts and voices
singing
My friends marched out to
die;
But I was hearing a lonely
pibroch
Out of an older war,
‘Farewell, farewell, farewell,
MacCrimmon,
MacCrimmon comes no more.’
And every lad in his heart
was dreaming
Of honour and wealth to
come,
And honour and noble pride
were calling
To the tune of the pipes
and drum;
But I was hearing a woman
singing
On dark Dunvegan shore,
‘In battle or peace, with
wealth or honour,
MacCrimmon comes no more.’
And there in front of the
men were marching,
With feet that made no mark,
The grey old ghosts of the
ancient fighters
Come back again from the
dark;
And in front of them all
MacCrimmon piping
A weary tune and sore,
‘On the gathering day, for
ever and ever,
MacCrimmon comes no more.’
By: Ewart Alan Mackintosh