I am Padraic Mor mac Cruimin, Son of Domhnall of the Shroud, Piper, like my kind before me, To the household of MacLeod.
Death is in the seed of Cruimin — All my music is a wail; Early graves await the poets And the pipers of the Gael.
Samhain gleans the golden harvests Duly in their tide and time, But my body's fruit is blasted Barely past the Bealtein prime.
Cethlenn claims the fairest fighters Fitly for her own, her own, But my seven sons are stricken Where no battle-pipe is blown.
Flowers of the forest fallen On the sliding summer stream — Light and life and love are with me, Then are vanished into dream.
Berried branches of the rowan Rifled in the wizard wind — Clan and generation leave me, Lonely on the heath behind.
Who will soothe a father's sorrow When his seven sons are gone? Who will watch him in his sleeping? Who will wake him at the dawn?
Seven sons are taken from me In the compass of a year; Every bone is bose within me, All my blood is white with fear.
Seven youths of brawn and beauty Moulder in their mountain bed, Up in storied Inis-Scathach Where their fathers reaped their bread.
Nevermore upon the mountain, Nevermore in fair or field, Shall ye see the seven champions Of the silver-mantled shield.
I will play the “Cumhadh na Cloinne” Wildest of the rowth of tunes Gathered by the love of mortal From the olden druid runes.
Wail ye! Night is on the water; Wind and wave are roaring loud — Caoine for the fallen children Of the piper of MacLeod.
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