An Old Song on the Battle of Flodden
I Have heard of a lilting, at our ewes’ milking,
Lasses a lilting, before the break of day;
But now there’s a moaning, on ilka green loaning,
That our braw forresters are a’ wede away.
At boughts, in the morning, nae blyth lads are scorning;
The lasses are lonely, dowie, and wae;
Nae daffin, nae gabbin, but sighing and sabbing,
Ilka ane lifts her leglen, and hies her away.
At e’en at the gloming, nae swankies are roaming,
’Mong stacks, with the lasses, at bogle to play;
But ilka ane sits dreary, lamenting her deary,
The Flowers of the Forest that are a’ wede away.
At harrest, at the shearing, nae youngsters are jeering,
The bansters are runkled, lyart, and grey.
At a fair, or a preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching,
Since our braw forresters are a’ wede away.
O dool for the order, sent our lads to the border:
The English for anes by guile gat the day.
The Flowers of the Forrest, that ay shone the foremost,
The prime of our land, lies cauld in the clay.
We’ll hear nae mair lilting, at our ewes’ milking,
The women and bairns are dowie, and wae.
Sighing and moaning, on ilka green loaning,
Since our braw forresters are a’ wede away.