Sleep ye well ye noble Lords, sleep ye well this night?
Lost in deep and dreamless sleep, wi' narry a fancy's flight.
Silken covers swathe yer couch, and fierce yer firelight's glow,
Whilst 'neath great Bidean's
towering
heights, cold winter's winds do blow.
Beneath the walls of Coe's wild Glen, the spirits cry in pain.
For two score souls of Donald's blood 'neath cloak of trust foul
slain.
Slaughtered in their homes, their beds, by those that shared
their bread,
Their kinfolk harried through the hills, are now scattered far
and fled.
Woe tae
you Glenlyon, may yer bloody name be cursed,
Of all of Diarmaid's name and race, yer deeds dub you the worst!
Lindsey, Lundie, and bloody Barbour, ye sated your blood lust,
And down the ages ye'll be reviled, for yer
slaughter under trust.
But let us speak of famous men, who's guilt shall not be spared.
Ye Lords who sleep in quiet
beds, these murders ye prepared.
John of Stair, damned be yer soul, ye slur a noble name.
Breadalbane, all yer scheming spite,
has brought ye nought but shame.
Great Bidean still it's silent
watch through passing ages keeps.
The eagle soars above the Glen, where Old Maclain sleeps.
The spirits of the dead still call, though bones have turned to
dust,
Lest Donald's children e'er forget this slaughter under trust.
