Robert Burns

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THE lovely lass o’ Inverness,
  Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;
For e’en and morn she cries, alas!
  And aye the saut tear blins her ee:
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 growing green to see;
And by them lies the dearest lad
  That ever blest a woman’s ee!
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord,
  A bluidy man I trow thou be;
For mony a heart thou hast made sair,
  That ne’er did wrang to thine or thee.