Orijinal sözler
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The hue of her waters is crimsoned with slaughters
And the blood of the martyrs has reddened the clay
And dark desolation broods over the nation
For the faithful are perished, the good are away
On the mountains of heather they slumber together
On the wastes of the moorland their bodies decay
How sound is their sleeping, how safe is their keeping
Though far from their kindred they molder away
Oh, never to perish, their names let us cherish
The martyrs of scotland that now are away
