  The heather's on fire. McLeans from the byre, The hamlet, the city, the wide open plains, The lairds and rapscallions fill up the battalions With blue blood, with true blood, the loyal McLeans. (Each man in the clan a base coward disdains), They die in their glory, the trenches are gory With red blood, with shed blood of gallant McLeans. Afar on the heather, where hame folk foregather, The pibroch is wailing a dirge for the slain, The women are weeping, their lane vigils keeping, Sair, sair, are the hearts in the clan o' McLean. But mony will stick it, till Kaiser Bill's lickit, And doontrodden people get back a' their ain, Then Maids will stop greeting, for soon they'll be meeting The bonnie brave lads o' the clan o' McLean. |
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