Gur mór mo chùis mhuliad,
’S mì ri caoineadh na guin atà ’m thìr;
A Rìgh! bi làidir, ’s tù ’s urrainn
Ar nàimhdean a chumail fo chìs;
Oirnne is làidir Diùc Uilleam,
An rag-mheirlaeach, tha guin aige dhuinn;
B’è sud salcahr nan sgeallag
Tighinn an uachdar air chruithneachd an fhuinn.

Mo chreach, Teàlach Ruadh bòidheach
Bhith fo bhinn aig Rìgh Deòrsa nam biasd,
B’è sud dìteadh na còrach,
An Fhìrinn ’s a beòil foipe sìos;
Ach, a Rìgh, ma’s è ’s deòin leat,
Cuir an rìghachd air seòl a chaidh dhinn,
Cuir Rìgh dligheach na còrach
Ri linn na tha beò os ar cinn.

Mo chreach, armailt nam breacan
Bhith air sgaoikeadh ’s air sgapadh’s gach àit’,
Aig fìor-bhalgairean Shasuinn
Nach do ghnàthaich bonn ceartais ’nan dàil;

Ged a bhuannaich iad baiteal,
Cha b’ann d’an cruadal no ’n tapadh a bhà,
Ach gaoth aniar agus frasan
Thighinn a nìos oirnn bhàrr machair nan Gall.

Is truagh nach robh sinn ans Sasunn
Gun bhith cho teann air ar dachaidh ’s a bhà,
’S cha do sgaoil sinn cho aithghearr,
Bhiodh ar dìchioll ri sesamh na b’fhearr;
Ach ’s droch-dhraoidheachd us dreachdan
Rinneadh dhuinne nu’n deachas ’nan dàil
Air na frìthean eòlach do sgap sinn,
’S bu mhì-chomhdhail gun d’fhàirtlich iad oirnn.

Mo chreach mhòr! na cuirp ghleé-gheal
Tha ’nan laigh’ air na sléibhtean ud thall,
Gun chiste, gun léintean,
Gun adhlacadh fheéin anns na tuill;
Chuid tha beò dhiubh an déidh sgaoilidh
’S iad ’gan fògair le gaothan thar tuinn,
Fhuair na Chuigs an toil féin dinn,
’S cha chan iad ach ’reubaltaich’ ruinn.

Fhuair na Goill sin fo ’n casan,
Is mòr an nàire ’s am masladh sud leinn,
An déidh ar dùthaich ’s ar n’àite
An spùilleadh ’s gun bhlaàths againn ann;
Caisteal Dhùinidh an déidh a losgaidh,
’S è ’na làriach lom, thosdach, gun mhiadh;
Gum b’è ’n caochladh goirt è
Gun do chaill sinn gach sochair a b’fhiach... (14)

Great is the cause of my sorrow,
As I lament the wounds of my land;
O God! be strong, you’re able
To keep in subjection our enemies;
Over us Duke William is tyrant,
That extortioner, who destoys us;
Its like foul weeds of charlock
Overcoming the wheat of the land.

Woe is me, Handsome red Charlie
At the mercy of King George’s worthless beasts,
That were just right’s denial,
Truth and her lips down beneath her;
But, O God, if you are willing,
Put the kingdom on the course that we lost,
Restore us our rightful ruler
To reign over us while we’re alive.

Woe is me, the host of the tartan
Scattered and spread everywhere,
At the hands of England
Who met us unfairly in war;

Though they overcame us in battle,
It was due to no courage or merit of theirs,
But the wind and the rain from the West
Coming on us up from the Lowlands.

Pity we were not in England
And not so close to our homes as we were
Then we’d never have scattered so quickly
But endeavoured far better to stand;
We met evil sorcery
We were treated with wiles and deceit,
On our own hillsides we scattered,
It was through ill-chance that they did prevail

Woe is me! The white bodies
That lie out on the hillsides,
Uncoffined, unshrouded,
Not even buried in holes;
Those who survived the disaster
Are carried to exile overseas by the winds,
The Whigs have got their will of us,
And ’rebels’ the name that we’re given.

We are under the heel of strangers,
Great the shame and disgrace that we feel,
Our country and homes have been plundered
No welcome awaits us there now;
Castle Downie is in fire-blackened ruins,
Unhonoured its bare, silent walls;
It is bitter indeed fortune’s changing
We have lost every comfort we had... (14)