over yon hills of the heather sae green
An' doun by the corrie that sings to the sea,
The bonnie young Flora sat sighin' her lane,
The dew on her plaid an' the tear in her e'e.
She look'd at a boat wi' the breezes that swung,
Away on the wave like a bird on the main,
An' aye as it lessen'd she sigh'd an' she sung,
"Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again;
Fareweel to my hero, the gallant and young,
Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again."
The moorcock that crows on the brows o' Ben Connal,
He kens o' his bed in a sweet mossy hame;
The eagle that soars o'er the cliffs o' Clan Ranald,
Unaw'd and unhunted his eyrie can claim;
The solan can sleep on the shelves of the shore,
The cormorant roost on his rock of the sea;
But ah! there is one whose fate I deplore,
Nor house, ha' nor hame in this country has he;
The conflict is past, and our name is no more,
There's nought left but sorrow for Scotland and me.
is torn from the arm of the just,
The helmet is cleft on the brow of the brave;
The claymore forever in darkness must rust,
But red is the sword of the stranger and slave;
The hoof of the horse, and the foot of the proud,
Have trod o'er the plumes on the bonnet of blue;
Why slept the red bolt in the breast of the cloud,
When tyranny revell'd in blood of the true?
Fareweel my young hero, the gallant and good,
The crown of thy father's is torn from thy brow.
To Tour Skye