Och-on och-rie! Och-on och-rie!
I'm weary, sad, and lone;
And who can cheer the desolate,
When all their friends are gone?
The midnight wind that stirs the heath,
And wails with hollow moan,
Is laden with the voice of death,
And I am left alone.

Och-on och-rie! Och-on och-rie!
That ancient mournful strain,
Which echoes thro' each Highland glen,
Hath rent my heart in twain.
I gaze upon my roofless cot,
And on my cold hearth-stone,
I murmur, am I God-forgot,
That I am left alone?

Och-on och-rie! Och-on och-rie!
Still swells that melting air,
Blest spirits of my gallant boys,
I hear your voices there;
Ye fought—a Scottish Prince to place
Upon a Scottish throne;
Ye died—the last of all your race,
And I am left alone!