On Drummossie Moor the cold wind sighed, Through broken tartan where heroes died. The heather bent in silent prayer, For sons of Alba lying there. Beneath grey dawn and cannon’s roar, They faced the storm on Culloden’s moor, With claymore bright and hearts aflame— And left the earth without a name. Chorus Oh, weep for Charles Edward Stuart’s dream, Lost like mist on a Highland stream. Weep for the clans in sorrow bound, By blood and sorrow on that ground. The pipes fell still, the banners torn— A nation’s hope that bitter morn. And the wind still cries o’er hill and glen, “Will Scotland rise again?” Verse 2 From Inverness town to the western isles, They marched through hunger, tears, and trials. Barefoot lads in threadbare plaid, With all the faith their fathers had. But iron lines in scarlet dressed, Stood firm against each Highland crest, And grapeshot tore through kin and friend, Where courage met its tragic end. Chorus Oh, weep for Charles Edward Stuart’s dream, Lost like mist on a Highland stream. Weep for the clans in sorrow bound, By blood and sorrow on that ground. The pipes fell still, the banners torn— A nation’s hope that bitter morn. And the wind still cries o’er hill and glen, “Will Scotland rise again?” Bridge No mercy walked that field of pain, Only smoke and Highland rain. The crofts were burned, the tartans banned, A broken sword in a broken land. Through silent strath and empty shiel, The ghosts of Culloden wander still. Final Verse Yet in the hush of evening’s glow, When peat fires fade and soft winds blow, A lone piper on distant shore Plays for the fallen evermore. And though the heather hides their graves, The song of sorrow still braves— Across the years, through loss and pain, Till hope returns again.
