Softly glide we along,
Softly chant we our song,
For a king who to resting is come;
Oh, beloved and best,
Thou art fairing out west,
To the dear isle Iona, thy home.

Calmly there shalt thou lie,
With thy fathers gone by,
Their blood mingled deep with thine own;
Ne'er again to awake,
Till the last morn shall break,
And the trump of the judgment is blown.