Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.
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.
Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.
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.
Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.
Would my father then had sickened—
Colin, with the plague been ill;
Though Rory’s daughter, in her anguish,
Smote her palms, and cried her fill.
Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.
I could Colin shut in prison,
And black Duncan put in ward,—
Every Campbell now in Bealach,
Bind with handcuffs, close and hard.
Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.
When I reached the plain of Bealach,
I got there no rest, nor calm;
But my hair I tore in pieces,—
Wore the skin from off each palm!