From The Music of the Waters by Laura Alexandrine Smith, 1888:

FEAR A BHATA (THE BOATMAN).

1. How often hunting the highest hill-top,
I scan the ocean thy sail to see;
Wilt come to night, love? Wilt come to-morrow?
Wilt ever come, love, to comfort me?
Fear a Bhata, na horo eile,
Fear a Bhata, na horo eile,
Fear a Bhata, na horo eile,
O fare thee well, love, where'er thou goest.

2. They call thee fickle, they call thee false one,
And seek to change me, but all in vain,
No, thou'rt my dream yet throughout the dark night,
And every morn yet I watch the main.
Fear a Bhata, &c.

3. There's not a hamlet—too well I know it—
Where you go wandering or stay awhile,
But all its old folk you win with talking,
And charm its maidens with song and smile.
Dost thou remember the promise made me,
The tartan plaidie, the silken gown,
The ring of gold, with thy hair and portrait?
That gown and ring I will never own.
Fear a Bhata, na horo eile,
Fear a Bhata, na horo eile,
Fear a Bhata, na horo eile,
O fare thee well, love, where'er thou goest.