Rhymes of Northern Bards / Being a Curious Collection of Old and New Songs and Poems, Peculiar to the Counties of Newcastle upon Tyne, Northumberland, and Durham :: THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST; Or, Flodden Field .

THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST; Or, Flodden Field .

(Fought September 9th, 1513.)

This version is made up from various copies of this old ballad collated, and is of very unequal merit. The stanzas, from the 17th to the 22d inclusive, compose a dirge of the most beautiful and pathetic simplicity. The circumstances are happily chosen and combined; and the language, to those who understand it, is so picturesquely expressive, that while we read the words, the scene is felt penciled on our imagination. And it is impossible to peruse it without feeling a high degree of that pleasing sombre tenderness, which it is the object of this sort of poetry to produce.

From Spey to the border,

Was peace and good order;

The sway of our monarch was mild as the May;

Peace he adored,

Whilk Soudrons abhorred,

Our marches they plunder, our wardens they slay.

’Gainst Louis, our ally,

Their Henry did sally,

Tho’ James, but in vain, did his herauld advance,

Renouncing alliance,

Denouncing defiance,

To Soudrons, if langer abiding in France.

Many were the omens,

Our ruin was coming,

E’er the flower of our nation was call’d to array:

Our king at devotion,

St Andrew did caution,

And sigh’d as with sorrow he to him did say,—

Sir, in this expedition,

You must have ambition;

From the company of women you shou’d keep away.

When the spectre this declar’d,

It quickly disappear’d;

But where it retired no man could espy.

The flowers of the nation

Were call’d to their station,

With valiant inclination their banners to display;

To Burrow-Muir resorting;

Their right for supporting,

And there rendevouzing, encamped did lay.

But another bad omen,

That vengeance was coming;

At midnight, in Edinburgh, a voice loud did cry,

As heraulds, in their station,

With loud proclamation,

Did name all our barons in England to die.

These words the demon spoke,

At the throne of Plotcock,

It charg’d their appearing, appointing the day:

The provost, in its hearing,

The summons greatly fearing,

Appeal’d to his Maker, the same did deny.

At this were many griev’d,

As many misbeliev’d;

But forward they march’d to their destiny:

From thence to the border,

They march’d in good order,

The Merse-men and Forrest they join’d the array.

England’s invasion,

It was their persuasion,

To make restitution for their cruelty;

But O fatal Flodoun!

There came the wo down;

And our royal nation was brought to decay.

After spoiling and burning,

Many hameward returning,

With our king still the nobles and vassals abide:

To Surrey’s proud vaunting,

He answers but daunting;

The king would await him whatever betide.

The English advanced

To where they were stanced;

Half-intrenched by nature, the field it so lay:

To fight the English fearing,

And sham’d their retiring;

But alas! unperceived was their subtilty.

Our Highland battalion,

So forward and valiant,

They broke from their ranks, and they rush’d on to slay:

With hacking and slashing,

And broad swords a-dashing,

Thro’ the front of the English they cut a full way.

But, alas! to their ruin,

An ambush pursuing,

They were surrounded with numbers too high:

The Merse-men and Forest,

They suff’red the sorest,

Upon the left wing were inclos’d the same way.

Our men into parties,

The battle in three quarters,

Upon our main body the marksmen did play:

The spearmen were surrounded.

And all were confounded;

The fatal devastation of that woful day!

Our nobles all ensnared,

Our king he was not spared;

For of that fate he shared, and would not run away;

The whole were intercepted,

That very few escaped

The fatal conflagration of that woful day.

This set the whole nation

Into grief and vexation:

The widows did weep, and the maidens did say,

Why tarries my lover?

The battle’s surely over?

Is there none left to tell us the fates of the day?

I’ve heard a lilting,

At our ewes’ milking,

Lasses a-lilting afore the break of day;

But now there’s a moaning,

On ilka green loaning,

Since our bra foresters are a’ wed away.

At boughts i’ the morning,

Nae blyth lads are scorning;

The lasses are lonely, dowie, and wae;

Nae daffin, nae gabbin,

But sighing and sabbing,

Ilk ane lifts her leglen, and hies her away.

At e’en in the glomin,

Nae swankeys are roaming,

’Mang stacks, wi’ the lasses, at bogle to play;

But ilk ane sits dreary,

Lamenting her deary,

The flowers of the Forest that are wed away.

In herst, at the shearing,

Nae younkers are jeering;

The bansters are lyart, runkled, and grey:

At fairs nor at preaching,

Nae wooing, nae fleeching,

Since our bra’ Foresters are a’ wed away.

O dool for the order,

Sent our lads to the border!

The English for anes by guile got the day:

The Flowers of the Forest,

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 bra Foresters are a’ wed away.

I’ve seen the smiling

Of fortune beguiling;

I’ve felt all her favours, and found her decay:

Sweet is her blessing,

And kind her caressing;

But now it is fled, it is fled far away.

I’ve seen the forest

Adorned the foremost,

With flowers of the fairest both pleasant and gay:

Sae bonny was their blooming,

Their scent the air perfuming;

But now they are withered, and all gone away.

I’ve seen the morning,

With gold the hills adorning,

And loud tempests storming before mid-day:

I’ve seen Tweed’s silver streams

Shining i’ the sunny beams,

Grow drumly and dark as it roll’d on the way.

O fickle fortune!

Why this cruel sporting?

Why this perplexing poor sons of a day?

Thy frowns cannot fear me,

Nor smiles cannot chear me,

Since the Flowers of the Forest are a’ wed away.

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