(I’ll return no more), and on many other mournful occasions the lament of the Mac Crimmons was made the means of expressing the feelings of Highlanders. It was composed in 1746 by Donald _Bàn_ Mac Crimmon, then piper to Mac Leod of Dunvegan. Donald _Bàn_ was considered the best piper of his day, and when the clan left Dunvegan to join the Royalists in 1746, he was deeply impressed with the idea that he himself would never again see the old castle. The parting of the clansmen with their wives and children was sad, and Donald _Bàn_, thinking of his own sweetheart, poured forth his soul in the sad wail of the Lament, as the Mac Leods were marching away from the castle. The clan afterwards took part in a skirmish, which, from the peculiar circumstances, is known to history as the “Rout of Moy,” and Mac Crimmon was shot close by the side of his chief. The Gaelic words usually associated with the lament are supposed to have been sung by Donald _Bàn’s_ sweetheart, but they are in all likelihood of much later date. The chorus, however, is probably as old as the tune, but the complete verses first appeared in print in 1835, in a collection of _Popular Gaelic Songs_ by John Mac Kenzie, of the _Beauties of Gaelic Poetry_, where the words are said to have been taken from an old Skye manuscript. Translated into English they lose much of their plaintive melody, and make but a poor means of conveying an idea of the tune to the non-Gaelic reader:— “The mountain mist flows deep on Cullin, The fay sings her elegy sorrowful; Mild blue eyes in the Duin are in tears, Since he departed and refused to return. He returns not, returns not, returns not, Mac Crimmon, From war and conflict the warrior refuses to return. He returns not, returns not, Mac Crimmon would not return, He will return no more until the day of the last gathering. The winds of the wold among the boughs are wailing, Each streamlet and burn is sad on the hills; The minstrels of the boughs are singing mournfully, Since he departed and will never return. He returns not, etc. The night is clouded, sorrowful and sad, The birlin under sail, but reluctant to depart, The waves of the sea have a sound not happy, Lamenting that he departed and will never return. He returns not, etc. Gather will not the tuneful race of Duin in the evening, While echo with alacrity and joy answers them; The youths and maidens are without music lamenting That he departed from us and will never return. He returns not, etc.” This is perhaps too literal a rendering. Let us try Professor Blackie’s version. Blackie was an enthusiast for everything Celtic, and beautified everything in Celtic literature that his pen touched. A comparison of the two translations shows this:—