THE lovely lass o' Inverness, 
   Nae joy nor pleasure can she see; 
For e'en and 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 growing 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 monie a heart thou hast made sair, 
   That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee.'