Ullin came with his harp!
he gave the song of Alpin.
The voice of Alpin was pleasant: 
the soul of Ryno was a beam of fire!
But they had rested in the narrow house: 
their voice had ceased in Selma. 
Ullin had returned, one day, from the chase, 
before the heroes fell. 
He heard their strife on the hill; 
their song was soft but sad! 
They mourned the fall of Morar, 
first of mortal men! 
His soul was like the soul of Fingal: 
his sword like the sword of Oscar. 
But he fell, and his father mourned: 
his sister's eyes 
were full of tears. 
Minona's eyes were full of tears,
the sister of car-borne Morar. 
She retired from the song of Ullin, 
like the moon in the west, 
when she foresees the shower, 
and hides her fair head 
in a cloud. 
I touched the harp with Ullin; 
the song of mourning rose!

Ryno:
The wind and the rain are past; calm is the noon of day. 
The clouds are divided in heaven. 
Over the green hills flies 
the inconstant sun. 
Red through the stony vale 
comes down the stream of the hill. 
Sweet are thy murmurs, O stream! 
but more sweet is the voice I hear. 
It is the voice of Alpin, the son of song, mourning for the dead! 
Bent is his head of age; 
red his tearful eye. 
Alpin, thou son of song, 
why alone on the silent hill? 
why complainest thou, as a blast in the wood; 
as a wave on the lonely shore?

Alpin:
My tears, O Ryno! are for the dead; 
my voice for those that have passed away. 
Tall thou art on the hill; 
fair among the sons of the vale. 
But thou shalt fall like Morar; 
the mourner shall sit on thy tomb. 
The hills shall know thee no more; 
thy bow shall in thy hall unstrung.

Thou wert swift, O Morar! as a roe on the desert; 
terrible as a meteor of fire. 
Thy wrath was as the storm. Thy sword in battle, 
as lightning in the field. 
Thy voice was a stream after rain; 
like thunder on distant hills. 
Many fell by thy arm; 
they were consumed in the flames of thy wrath. 
But when thou didst return from war, 
how peaceful was thy brow! 
Thy face was like the sun after rain; 
like the moon in the silence of night; 
calm as the breast of the lake
when the loud wind is laid.

Narrow is thy dwelling now! Dark the place of thine abode! 
With three steps I compass thy grave. 
O thou who wast so great before! 
Four stones, with their heads of moss, 
are the only memorial of thee. 
A tree with scarce a leaf, long grass, 
which whistles in the wind, mark to the hunter's eye 
the grave of the mighty Morar. 
Morar! thou art low indeed. Thou hast no mother to mourn thee; 
no maid with her tears of love. 
Dead is she that brought thee forth. Fallen is the daughter of Morglan.

Who on his staff is this? 
who is this whose head is white with age; 
whose eyes are red with tears? who quakes at every step? 
It is thy father, O Morar! 
the father of no son but thee. 
He heard of thy fame in war; 
he heard of foes dispersed. 
He heard of Morar's renown;
why did he not hear of his wound? 
Weep, thou father of Morar! 
weep; but thy son heareth thee not. 
Deep is the sleep of the dead; 
low their pillow of dust. 
No more shall he hear thy voice; 
no more awake at thy call. 
When shall it be morn in the grave, 
to bid the slumberer awake?
Farewell, thou bravest of men! 
thou conqueror in the field! 
but the field shall see thee no more; 
nor the dark wood be lightened 
with the splendor of thy steel. 
Thou hast left no son. 
The song shall preserve thy name. 
Future times shall hear of thee; 
they shall hear of the fallen Morar.