O Mairi Dhu, the weaver's wife,
Will have the evil eye;
The fear will come about my heart
When she'll be passing by;
She'll have the piercing look to wound
The very birds that fly.

I would not have her evil wish,
I would not have her praise,
For like the shadow would her curse,
Me follow all my days—
When she my churning will speak well,
No butter can I raise.

O Mairi Dhu will have the eye
To wound the very deer—
Ah! would she scowl upon my bairns
When her they would come near?
They'll have the red cords round their necks,
So they'll have naught to fear.

It's Murdo Ban, the luckless man,
Against her would prevail;
And first her eye was on his churn,
Then on the milking pail;
When she would praise the brindled cow,
The cow began to ail.

The trout that gambol in the pool
She'll wound when she goes past;
Then weariness will come upon
The fins that flicked so fast;
And one by one the lifeless things
Will on the stones be cast.

O Mairi Dhu, you gave yon sprain
To poor Dun Para's arm;
It is myself would have the work
Undoing of the harm—
I'd twist around the three-ply cord
Well-knotted o'er the charm.

Your eye you'd put on yon sweet babe
O' Lachlan o' Loch-Glass;
He'd fill the wooden ladle where
The dead and living pass—
And with the water, silver-charmed,
He'd save his little lass.

I'll lock my cheese within the chest,
My butter I will hide;
I'll bar the byre at milking time,
Although you'll wait outside—
You'll maybe go another way—
Who'll care for you to bide?