“Oh no, oh no, my brither dear,
The clans they are ower strang,
An they drive back our merry men,
Wi swords baith sharp an lang.”
Brave Forbës drew his men aside,
Said, “Tak your rest a while,
Until I to Drumminnor send,
To fess my coat o mail.”
The servan he did ride,
An his horse it did na fail,
For in twa hours an a quarter
He brocht the coat o mail.
Then back to back the brithers twa
Gaed in amo the thrang,
An they hewed doun the Hielanmen,
Wi swords baith sharp an lang.
Macdonell he was young an stout,
Had on his coat o mail,
And he has gane oot throw them a’
To try his han himsell.
The first ae straik that Forbës strack,
He garrt Macdonell reel;
An the neist ae straik that Forbës strack,
The great Macdonell fell.
And siccan a lierachie,
I’m sure ye never sawe
As wis amo the Hielanmen,
When they saw Macdonell fa.
An whan they saw that he was deid,
They turnd and ran awa,
An they buried him in Legget’s Den,
A large mile frae Harlaw.
They rade, they ran, an some did gang,
They were o sma record;
But Forbës and his merry men,
They slew them a’ the road.
On Monanday, at mornin,
The battle it began,
On Saturday at gloamin’,
Ye’d scarce kent wha had wan.