The lovely lass o' Inverness,
  Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;
For e'en to morn she cries, (Alas!)
  And ay the saut tear blins 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 has made sair
  That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee! »