Fare thee well, ye banks of Sicily
Fare thee well, ye valley and shore
There's no Scot will mourn the loss o' ye
Poor bloody soldiers are weary
The pipie's is tuned and he's piping away
He'll not come to town for his vino today
The sky is like Antrim all cloudy an' grey
And the song that he's playing is eerie
Fare ye well...
It's march down the stairs, and line on the bay
Packs on your backs and the boats are away
Waiting your turn while the pipe and drum play
And the tune that they're playing is eerie
So fare ye well...
The drummie is polished, the drummie is grand
He cannot be seen for his straps and his bands
He's greased himself up for a photo and stand
To leave wi' his Lola, his dearie
So fare thee well...