Oh, where are the pretty men of yore?
Oh, where are the brave men gone?
Oh, where are the heroes of the north?
Each under his own gray stone.
Oh, where now the broad bright claymore?
Oh, where are the trews and plaid?
Oh, where now the merry Highland heart?
In silence for ever laid.
Och on a rie, och on a rie,
Och on a rie, all are gone;
Och on a rie, the heroes of yore,
Each under his own gray stone.
The chiefs that were foremost of old,
MacDonald and Brave Lochiel,
The Gordon, the Murray, and the Graham,
With their clansmen true as steel;
Who followed and fought with Montrose,
Glencairn and bold Dundee;
Who to Charlie gave their swords and their all,
And would aye rather fa' than flee.
Och on a rie, och on a rie,
Och on a rie, all are gone;
Och on a rie, the heroes of yore,
Each under his own gray stone.
The hills that our brave fathers trod
Are now to the stranger a store;
The voice of the pipe and the bard
Shall waken never more.
Such things it is sad to think on -
They come like the mist by day -
And I wish I had less in this world to leave,
And be with them that are away.
Och on a rie, och on a rie,
Och on a rie, all are gone;
Och on a rie, the heroes of yore,
Each under his own gray stone |
