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.1

O, hark! there's a stir, in the trees in the glen!
['Tis]2 the call of the pibrochs! the marching of men!
The echoes are waking on forest and [scaur]3,
'tis Angus my own, coming home from the war!