He's owre the hills.
[Modern Jacobite song.]
He's owre the hills that I lo'e weel;
He's owre the hills we darena name,
He's owre the hills ayont Dumblane,
Wha soon will get his welcome hame.
My father's gane to fight for him,
My brithers winna bide at hame,
My mither greets and prays for them,
And 'deed she thinks they're no to blame.
He's owre the hills, &c.
The Whigs may scoff, the Whigs may jeer,
But, ah! that luve maun be sincere,
Which still keeps true whate'er betide,
An' for his sake leaves a' beside.
He's owre the hills, &c.
His right these hills, his right these plains;
O'er Highland hearts secure he reigns;
What lads e'er did, our lads will do:
Were I a lad, I'd follow him too.
He's owre the hills, &c.
Sae noble a look, sae princely an air,
Sae gallant and bold, sae young and sae fair;
Oh! did you but see him, ye'd do as we've done;
Hear him but ance, to his standard you'll run.
He's owre the hills, &c.