Culloden muir, Culloden field,
⁠Long wilt thou be remember'd:
On thee the hero nobly fell,
⁠And with the dead was number'd;
On thee the dearest blood was shed,
⁠By numbers doubled fairly;
On thee the clans of Scotland bled
⁠For their dear royal Charlie.

Thy broad brown sward that day was dyed,
⁠The howes were clotted o'er;
From gaping wounds incessant flow'd
⁠The red, red-reeking gore:
Thou drank'st the precious blood of those
⁠Who fought that day fu' sairly,
A glorious day for Scotland's foes,
⁠Eventful for prince Charlie!

Oh! Charlie, noble, gallant youth,
⁠Thy memory Scots revere;
They loved thee with the warmest truth,
⁠Their hearts were all sincere:
But traitor knaves, with brib'ry base,
⁠Made death's darts fly fu' rarely,
And Scotland lang will mind the place
⁠She lost her royal Charlie.