Vinvela:
 My love is a son of the hill.
 He pursues the flying deer. 
 His grey dogs are panting around him; 
 his bow-string sounds in the wind.
 Dost thou rest by the fount of the rock,
 or by the noise of the mountain-stream?
 the rushes are nodding to the wind,
 the mist flies over the hill.
 I will approach my love unseen;
 I will behold him from the rock.
 Lovely I saw thee first 
 by the aged oak of Branno;
 thou wert returning tall from the chase;
 the fairest among thy friends.

Shilric:
 What voice is that I hear?
 that voice like the summer wind!
 I sit not by the nodding rushes;
 I hear not the fount of the rock.
 Afar Vinvela, afar,
 I go to the wars of Fingal.
 My dogs attend me no more.
 No more I tread the hill.
 No more from on high I see thee,
 fair-moving by the stream of the plain;
 bright as the bow of heaven;
 as the moon on the western wave.

Vinvela:
 Then thou art gone, O Shilric!
 I am alone on the hill!
 The deer are seen on the brow;
 void of fear they graze along.
 No more they dread the wind,
 no more the rustling tree.
 The hunter is far removed;
 he is in the field of graves.
 Strangers! sons of the waves!
 spare my lovely Shilric!

Shilric:
 If fall I must in the field,
 raise high my grave, Vinvela.
 Grey stones and heaped-up earth,
 shall mark me to future times.
 When the hunter shall sit by the mound,
 and produce his food at noon,
 "Some warrior rests here," he will say;
 and my fame shall live in his praise.
 Remember me, Vinvela,
 when low on earth I lie!

Vinvela:
 Yes! I will remember thee;
 alas! my Shilric will fall!
 What shall I do, my love!
 when thou art for ever gone? 
 Through these hills I will go at noon:
 I will go through the silent heath.
 There I will see the place of thy rest,
 returning from the chase.
 Alas! my Shilric will fall;
 but I will remember Shilric.