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Fresh blows the wind, a western wind,And from the shores of Erin,Across the wave, a Rover braveTo Binnorie is steering:Right onward to the Scottish strandThe gallant ship is borne;The Warriors leap upon the land,And hark! the Leader of the BandHath 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 shadeThey lie like Fawns reposing.But now, upstarting with affrightAt noise of Man and Steed,
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