The lovely lass o' Inverness,
Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;
For e'en to morn she cries, "Alas!"
And aye the saut tear blin's her e'e:
"Drumossie moor—Drumossie day—
A waefu' day it was to me!
For there I lost my father dear,
My father dear, and brethren three.
"Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay,
Their graves are growin' green to see;
And by them lies the dearest lad
That ever blest a woman's e'e!
"Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord,
A bluidy man I trow thou be;
For mony a heart thou has made sair
That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee!"