I've heard the lilting, at our yowe-milking,
Lasses a-lilting, before the dawn o' day;
But now they are moaning, on ilka green loaning:
The Flowers o' the Forest are a' wede away.
At buchts in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning
The lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae;
Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing,
Ilk ane lifts her leglen and hies away.
In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering
The bandsters are lyart, and runkled and grey
At fair, or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching —
The Flowers o' the Forest are a' wede away.
At e'en, at the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming
'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play;
But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie
The Flowers o' the Forest are a' wede away.
Dule and wae to the order, sent our lads to the border
The English, for aince, by guile wan the day:
The Flowers o' the Forest, that foucht aye the foremost
The pride o' our land, are cauld in the clay.
We hear nae mair lilting at our yowe-milking,
Women and bairns are heartless and wae;
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning
The Flowers o' the Forest are a' wede away.
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