Softly now the burn is rushing,
Every lark its song is hushing,
On the moor thick rest is falling,
Just one heather-blade is calling-
Calling, calling, lonely, lonely,
For my darling, for my only,
Leanbhain O, Leanbhain O!

Trotting home, my dearie, dearie,
Wee black lamb comes, wearie, wearie,
Here its soft feet pit-a-patting
Quickly o'er the flowery matting,
See its brown-black eyes a-blinking-
Of its bed it's surely thinking,
Leanbhain O, Leanbhain O!

The hens to roost wee Nora's shooing,
Brindley in the byre is mooing,
The tired-out cricket's quit its calling,
Velvet sleep on all is falling,-
Lark and cow, and sheep and starling,-
Feel it kiss our white-haired darling,
Leanbhain O, Leanbhain O!