The lovely lass o' Inverness

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! »