Duncan's lyin’ on the cauld hillside,
Donal's swingin’ on the hangman's yew:
Black be the fa’ o’ the sergeant's bride
Wha broke twa troths to keep ae tryst true.
The red-coats march at the skreek o’ day,
An’ we maun lie on the brae the night;
Then here's to them safely on their way,
Speed to the mirk brings the mornin's fight.
Here's luck to me if you chance to fa’,
An’ here's to luck if it favours you;
For she's but ane, an’ o’ us there's twa,
To him that's left may she yet prove true.
In days to come, when the reivers ride,
They'll miss ae sword that was swift an’ keen,
An’ you or I, as the Fates decide,
Will curse the glint o’ a woman's een.
A parting cup, we will drink it noo,
Syne break the quaich to a shattered faith;
Here's happiness to the lass we lo'e,
The lying lass wha deceived us baith.
The soldiers drink in the change-house freet
The tinker's clinkin’ a crackit quaich;
But cuddlin’ there on the sergeant's knee
Wha is the lass that is lauchin’ laich?