Cold winds on the moors blow.
Warm the enemy’s fires glow.
Like the harvest of Culloden,
Pain and fear and death grow.
‘Twas love of our prince drove us all to Drumossie,
But in scarcely the time that it takes me to tell,
The flower of our country lay scorched by an army,
As ruthless and red as the embers of hell.
Red Campbell the Fox did the work of the English.
MacDonald in anger did no work at all.
With musket and cannon against honour and courage.
The invading men stood while our clansmen did fall.
— Culloden’s Harvest, Déanta.