Ah, for the glens are lyin' bare,   And the wee bit farm deserted,   And the woods of Germany,   Grows in rows o'er the broken hearted.      Black is the wood on the roofance was braw   But blacker still is your heart, Victoria,   Sent your men untae our glens   You'll need the Good Lord lookin' o'er ye.      Many hae gane tae Americay   You burnt their hames and garred them wander   Gor a' would have stayed wi' the deil himsel'   As bide an hour wi' the cruel Gillanders.      Ah, for the glens are lyin' bare   And the wee bit farm deserted   And the woods of Germany   Grows on rows o'er the broken hearted.