And in vain may they look for their lovers’ return;
On the green dale of Dryburgh they rest in their grave,
And o’er them the hemlock and rank nettles wave.
And few have escaped from the Galloway spear,
That followed the flying and glanced in their rear,
And the moss-troopers’ widows are ruing the day
Their husbands departed for Fair Galloway.
(Condensed)