Banks Of Sicily
Fare thee well, ye banks of Sicily,
Fare thee well, ye valley and shore.
There's no Jock will mourn the loss of ye;
Poor bloody soldiers are weary.
The piper is tuned up and piping away;
He can't come to toon for his vino today.
The skies o' Messina are cloudy and grey,
And the song that he's playing is eerie.
It's march doon the square, and light on the bay,
Packs on your back and the boats are away.
Waiting your turn while the pipes and drums play,
And the song that they're playing is eerie.
The drummer is polished, the drummer is grand.
He cannae be seen for his straps and his bands.
He's raised himself up for a photo and stand
To leave wi' his Lola, his dearie.