Murn, Ye Heighlands, and murn, ye Laighlands,
I trow ye hae meikle need;
For the bonnie burn o' Corichie
His run this day wi’ bleid.
Thi hopefu' Laird o' Finliter
Erle Huntley's gallant son,
For thi love hi bare our beautious quine,
His gar't fair Scotland mone.
Hi has broken his ward in Abirdene
Thru' dreid o' the fause Murry;
And has gather't the gentle Gordone clan,
An' his father, auld Huntley.
Fain wid hi tak' our bonny guide quine,
An' beare her awa' wi' him ;
But Murry's slee wyles spoilt a' the sport,
And reft him o' life and lim’
Murry gart rayse thi tardy Merns men,
An’ Angus, an' mony ane mair;
Erle Morton an' the Byres Lord Linsay
And campit at the Hill o’ Fare.
Erle Huntley cam' wi’ Haddo Gordone,
An' countit ane thousand men ;
But Marry had abien twal hunder,
Wi sax score horsemen and ten.
They soundit the bougils an' trumpits,
All' marchit on in brave array ;
Till the spiers and the axis forgatherit,
An' than did begin the fray.
The Gordones sae fercely did fecht it,
Withouten terrer or dreid,
That mony o' Murry’s men lay gaspin’
And dyit the grund wi' theire bleid.
Then fause Murry feignit to flee them,
An' they pursuit at his backe;
When the half o' the Gordones desertit,
An' turnit wi' Murry in a crack.
Wi hether in thir bonnets they turnit
The traitor Haddo o' thir heid;
An' slaid their brithers an' thir fatheris,
An' spoilit an' left them for deid.
Then Murry cried to tak' the auld Gordone,
An' mony ane ran wi' speid;
But Stuart o' Inchbraik had him stickit,
An' out gushit the fat lurdane's bleid.
Then they tuke his twa sons, quick an' hale,
An' bare them awa' to Abirdene;
But sair did our guide quine lament
Thi waefu’ chance that they were tane.
Erle Murry lost mony a gallant stout man,
The hopefu' Laird o' Thornitune,
Pillara's sons, and Eglis far-fearit laird,
An' mair to me unkend, fell doune.
Erle Huntley mist ten score o' his bra’ men,
Sum o' heigh an' sum o' laigh degree;
Skeenis' young son, the pride o' a' thi clan,
Was ther fun deid - he widna flee.
This bluidy fecht wis fercely faucht,
Octobri's aught and twenty day;
Christ's fyfteen hunder threscore year
An’ twa, will merk the dedlie fray.
But now the day maist waefu cam',
That day the quine did greet hir fill;
For Huntley's gallant stalwart son
Wis headit on the Heidin hill.
Fyve noble Gordones wi' him hangit were,
Upon thi samen fatal playne;
Cruel Murry gart the waefu' quine luke out
An' see her lover an' liges slayne.
I wis our quine had better frinds,
I wis our countrie better peice ;
I wis our lords wid na discord,
I wis our weirs at hame may ceise!