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8
Their waefu fate what need I tell,
Right to the wrang did yeild,
My Donald and his country fell,
Upon Culloden field,
I hae nocht left me ava,
Ochon ochon ochrie,
But bonny orphan lad-weans twa,
To seek their bread wi' me.
I hae yet a tocher-hand,
Ochon ochon ochrie,
My winsome Donald's dirk and brand,
Into their hands to gie.
There's only ae blink o hope left,
To lighten my auld e'e,
To see my bairns gie bluidy crowns,
To them gart Donald die.
Ochon ochon! oh Donald oh!
Ochon ochon ochrie.
Nae woman in the warld wide,
Sae wretched now as me.
