The lovely lass o' Inverness
Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;
For e'en [to]1 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! »