The hue of her waters
Is crimsoned with slaughters
And the blood of the martyrs
Has reddened the clay
And dark desolation
Broods over the nation
For the faithful are perished
The good are away
On the mountains of heather
They slumber together
On the wastes of the moorland
Their bodies decay
How sound is their sleeping
How safe is their keeping
Though far from their kindred
They molder away
Oh, never to perish
Their names let us cherish
The martyrs of Scotland that now are away
