O sad were the homes on the mountain and glen
when Angus Macdonald march'd off with his men;
O sad was my heart, when we sobb'd our good bye,
and he marched to the battle, maybe to die!

O Angus Macdonald, the loch is so drear,
and gloomy the mountains, for thou art not near;
O Angus, my own, in the camps oversea,
I'm waiting and longing, and praying for thee.

O, hark! there's a stir, in the trees in the glen!
'Tis the call of the pibrochs! the marching of men!
The echoes are waking on forest and scaur,
'tis Angus my own, coming home from the war!