THE luvely 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 bludy 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 bludy man I trow thou be;
For mony a heart thou hast made sair
That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee!