Early on a Lammas morning, With my husband was I gay; But my heart got sorely wounded Ere the middle of the day. (chorus) Ochan, Ochan, Ochan uiri, Though I cry, my child, with thee— Ochan, Ochan, Ochan uiri, Now he hears not thee nor me. Malison on judge and kindred— They have wrought me mickle woe; With deceit they came about us, Through deceit they laid him low. 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. 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. · · · · · When the rest have all got lovers Now a lover have I none; My fair blossom, fresh and fragrant, Withers on the ground alone. While all other wives the night-time Pass in slumber’s balmy bands; I, beside my bedside weary, Never cease to wring my hands. Far, far better be with Gregor Where the heather’s in its prime, Than with mean and Lowland barons In a house of stone and lime. · · · · · Bahu, bahu, little nursling— Oh! so tender now and weak; I fear the day will never brighten When revenge for him you’ll seek. Ochan, Ochan, Ochan uiri, Though I cry, my child, with thee— Ochan, Ochan, Ochan uiri Yet he hears not thee nor me.