Oh Holy Well, stony still, amang the heather bonnie,
what hae ye seen since Columba’s time, when saints roved a’ the dawning?
Wha hielan’ men hae sought ye dear, when mortal wounds where many?
Nae words do tell, the muckle feats o’ a cistern sae uncanny.
Nae cold iron brand or mystic ring hae e’er merited such fawning,
nor would a coven of ill fowk do sae guid wi’ a’ their conning!
Oh Holy Well, here I stand, wi’ home and land a-burnin’.
The Hielans, proud and gallant once, now a false laird’s claim,
For the Black Watch hae came and drove us oot, nae more to be returning.
Our lives hard-fought, but fu’ o’ guid—we now must be a-spurning,
Shoes did dance and whisky pour’d where now leaps peat-fueled flame.
Nae more forever we’ll blaw the pipes or sing o’ Hugh the Graeme.
Oh Holy Well, deep and cold, shall I cast myself down ye mouth
or will ye no, once more again, make a loch o’ a’ that’s yonder?
For the muckle thieves and vagrants would then ride the waters south!
For Alba’s sake, tried and true, let ye waters flood this drouth!
Scotland anew, awash with wi’ clans, I would embrace the fonder,
and hielan’ might and hospitality rare, would give pause for all to ponder!
