THE lovely lass o' Inverness,   Nae joy nor pleasure can she see; For e'en and morn she cries, 'Alas!'   And aye the saut tear blin's 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 hast made sair,   That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee.'