“Round Cullin’s peak the mist is sailing, The banshee croons her note of wailing, Mild blue eyes with sorrow are streaming, For him that shall never return, Mac Crimmon! No more, no more, no more for ever, In war or peace, shall return Mac Crimmon; No more, no more, no more for ever, Shall love or gold bring back Mac Crimmon. The breeze on the hills is mournfully blowing, The brook in the hollow is plaintively flowing, The warblers, the soul of the grove, are mourning For Mac Crimmon that’s gone with no hope of returning. No more, etc. The tearful clouds the stars are veiling, The sails are spread, but the boat is not sailing, The waves of the sea are moaning and mourning For Mac Crimmon that’s gone to find no returning. No more, etc. No more on the hill at the festal meeting The pipe shall sound with the festal greeting, And lads and lasses change mirth to mourning, For him that’s gone to know no returning. No more, etc.” The story of the origin of the tune which I have given is that generally accepted as historically accurate. There is, however, a tradition that after the passing of the Heritable Jurisdiction Bill in 1747 practically abolished the office of hereditary piper, Donald _Dubh_ Mac Crimmon, the last of the race, who died in 1822 at the age of ninety-one, composed the lament on his departure for Canada. The sentiment is hardly that which one might expect from a departing emigrant, but rather what a piper might give expression to on leaving for the wars, a fact which tells against the tradition. Nevertheless, the tune has been turned into an emigrant’s farewell on many occasions, and the last verse of Sir Walter Scott’s composition connected with the tune, shows that the poet accepted the air as such, to some extent at least:— Mac Leod’s wizard flag from the grey castle sallies, The rowers are seated, unmoor’d are the galleys; Gleam war-axe and broadsword, clang target and quiver, As Mac Crimmon sings ‘Farewell to Dunvegan for ever! Farewell to each cliff on which breakers are foaming; Farewell each dark glen in which red deer are roaming, Farewell lonely Skye, to lake, mountain, and river, Mac Leod may return, but Mac Crimmon shall never! ‘Farewell the bright clouds that on Quillan are sleeping; Farewell the bright eyes in the dun that are weeping; To each minstrel delusion farewell—and for ever— Mac Crimmon departs to return to you never! The banshee’s wild voice sings the death dirge before me, The pall of the dead for a mantle hangs o’er me; But my heart shall not flag and my nerve shall not shiver, Though devoted I go—to return again never!