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[yaguari]

O Mhari; Oh, Mhari my girl
Thy sea-blue eyes with witchery
Draw me to thee, off Mull's wild shore
My heart is sore, for love of thee...

The wind from the island brings songs of our sorrow
The cry of the gulls and the sighing of streams
In all of my dreaming, I'm hearing the waters
That flow from the hills in the land of our dreams.

Blow westward, O sea-wind, and bring us some murmur
Adrift from our homeland of honour and truth,
In waking and sleeping, I'm hearing the waters
That flow from the hills in the land of our youth.

We sing in this far land the songs of our exile;
The pipes and the harps are as sweet as before,
But never shall music run sweet as the waters
That flow in that land we shall never see more.