When Neil MacLeod went over the rock
it’s near three hundred feet he fell,
from high on Soay’s Pointed Stack
down to the wild Atlantic swell.
With fifty fulmar round his waist
the wind, it never was blowing worse;
we could only watch him turning there
buoyed up by the ghosts of birds.
Storm will turn the sky to grey,
sky to grey, o sky to grey,
storm will turn the sky to grey,
the sky as grey as the darkening wave.
Buoyed up by the ghosts of birds,
he was buoyed up by the ghosts of birds;
he went down once, he went down twice,
then Neil MacLeod went down a third.
He waved his hand to say he’d gone,
he waved his hand in surrender,
and the sea waved back to Neil MacLeod
and Neil MacLeod went under.
Storm will turn the sky to grey,
sky to grey, o sky to grey,
storm will turn the sky to grey,
the sky as grey as the darkening wave.

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