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Fare ye well, ye banks of Sicily
Fare ye well, ye valley and shore
There's no Scot will mourn the loss o' ya
Poor bloody soldiers are weary

The pipie's all 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 they're playing is eerie

Fare ye well...

It's march down the stair, and line on the bay
Packs on your backs and the boats are away
Waiting your turn while the pipe and drum play
But the song that they're playing is eerie

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

Fare ye well...

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