My faithful fair darling,
My faithful fair darling, won’t you turn back to me;
I will not turn with you, my love, I cannot
For my beloved is lying ill.

I grieve I am not in the guise of a seagull,
Swimming light on top of the waves;
And I would journey to the island of Islay
Where tarries the maiden who vexes my soul.

I regret I am not with my own chosen mate,
On the mountaintop moorland
And no one to listen but the birds of the heath;
And hundreds of kisses I would give to her.

I took more than nine months
In the Indies so distant,
And a woman whose beauty like yours was unseen
And for all this world I would not stay there.

I spent a month in the torment of fever
When each night I did not expect to survive;
The object of my thoughts each day and night
That my request be granted and you at my side.

I will not struggle with the tree I can’t bend,
Though each bough be amply laden with apples;
My fond farewell to you if you have left me,
The sea never ebbs, but follows the flow