With deceit they came about us, with deceit they laid him low.
Had they met but twelve Macgregors with my Gregor at their head;
Now my child had not been orphaned, nor these bitter tears been shed.
On an oaken block they laid him, and they spilt his blood around;
I’d have drunk it in a goblet largely, ere it reached the ground.
When the rest have all got lovers now a lover have I none;
My fair blossom, fresh and fragrant, withers on the ground alone.
While all other wives the night-time pass in slumbers balmy bands,
I upon my bedside weary, never cease to wring my hands.