Nae joy nor pleasure can she see；

    For e'en to morn she cries Alas¹！

    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 growin' 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 mony a heart thou has made sair

    That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee！