From the Gaelic of MacIntyre

On Icolmcill may blessings pour! It is the island blest of yore; Mull's sister-twin in the wild main, Owning the sway of high Mac-Lean; The sacred spot, whose fair renown To many a distant land has flown, And which receives in courteous way All, all who thither chance to stray.

There in the grave are many a King And duine-wassel slumbering; And bodies, once of giant strength, Beneath the earth are stretch'd at length; It is the fate of mortals all To ashes fine and dust to fall; I've hope in Christ, for sins who died, He has their souls beatified.

Now full twelve hundred years, and more, On dusky wing have flitted o'er, Since that high morn when Columb grey Its wall's foundation-stone did lay; Images still therein remain And death-memorials carv'd with pain; Of good hewn stone from top to base, It shows to Time a dauntless face.

A man this day the pulpit fill'd, Whose sermon brain and bosom thrill'd, And all the listening crowd I heard Praising the mouth which it proffer'd. Since death has seiz'd on Columb Cill, And Mull may not possess him still, There's joy throughout its heathery lands, In Columb's place that Dougal stands.