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?
Farewell, my young hero! The gallant and good
The crown of thy fathers is torn from thy brow.