Far over yon hills of the heather so green, and down by the corrie that sings to the sea, the bonnie young Flora MacDonald sat sighing her lane, the dew on her plaid and the tear in her e'e. She looked at a boat with the breezes that swung away on the wave like a bird on the main, and aye as it lessened she sighed and she sung.

The moorcock that craws on the brow of Ben Connal. he kens o' his bed in a sweet mossy hame, the eagle that soars on the cliffs of Clanronald, unawed and unhunted, his eyrie can claim. The solan can sleep on his shelve of the shore, the cormorant roost on his rock of the sea. But oh! there is one whose hard fate I deplore, nor house, manor 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. The target 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 revelled in blood of the true?