Flodden Field; or, the Flowers of the Forest

I Have heard o lilting at the ewes milking, Lasses a lilting eir the break o day; But now I hear moaning on ilka green loaning, Sen our bra foresters are a wed away.

At bouchts in the morning nae blyth lads are scorning, The lasses are lenely, dowie, and wae; Nae daffin, nae gabbing, but siching and sabbing; Ilk ane lifts her leglen and hies her away.

At een in the gloming nae swankies are roaming, 'Mang stacks wi the lasses at bogle to play; For ilk ane sits dreary, lamenting her deary; The Flowers o the Forest, wha're a wed away.

In harst at the sheiring na yonkers are jeiring; The bansters are lyart, runkled, and gray; At fairs nor at preaching, nae wooing nae fleeching, Sen our bra foresters are a wed away.

O dule for the order sent our lads to the border! The English for anes by gyle wan the day. The Flowers o the Forest, wha ay shone the foremost, The prime o the land lye cauld in the clay!