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Lyrics

In the year 1745
When the Prince reached Scotland's shores,
We heard the call of the highland pipes,
And we all marched off to war.

Pick up a blade! Carry it high and proud!
Ready yourself to strike a blow!
And if I fall, pick up my body, too;
Carry it back to land I know.

Carry me home, carry me home, carry me home, my boys.
Bury me in the dirt I know.
Where the rain falls down onto the hallowed ground
Where the rough green grasses grow.

In the field we will see glory, boys!
We will soldiers cleaved in twain!
And our steel, it'll taste English blood!
As our skin tastes Scottish rain.

So pick up a blade! Do it for land or clan!
Do it for vengeance! For honour! Or for naught!
We'll never ask why ye would kill a man;
We'll only cheer at what ye've wrought!

Carry me home, carry me home, carry me home, my boys.
Bury me in the dirt I know.
Where the rain falls down onto the hallowed ground
Where the rough green grasses grow.

It matters not what we do battle for,
Whether 'tis noble or 'tis just.
All that we know is our bodies were made for war.
And we'll murder 'cause we must.

So pick up a blade! And you'll die by it!
Gentlemen reap whate'er they sow!
And if ye fall, give all my fond regards
To the legions of the devils down below!

Carry me home, carry me home, carry me home, my boys.
Bury me in the dirt I know.
Where the rain falls down onto the hallowed ground
Where the rough green grasses grow.