Nae joy nor pleasure can she see；
For e'en to 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 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！