To the feast I’ll not go, nor where merriment fast flows,
Since in waking of the spring an arrow pierced me sorely.
My young Hugh, lowly laid, lowly laid, lowly laid;
My young Hugh, lowly laid in debris of the wall breach.
I am sad, sore sad and wae, since in dust they low thee laid
My farewell I pray thee take, to stones in Dun high standing.
My young Hugh lowly laid, lowly laid, lowly laid;
My young Hugh, lowly laid, alas! and I not near thee.
Thou couldst dance with grace and glee, when they sang sweet melody;
The grass blade scarce would bent down be by thy quick tread so lightly.