Robert Burns

poems:

36

Lament For Culloden

The lovely lass o’ Inverness, Nae joy nor pleasure can she see; For e’en and morn she cries, “Alas!” And ay 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.

share poem