I’ve heard the liltin’ at our ewe-milkin’,
Lasses a liltin’ before dawn o’ day;
But now there’s a moanin’ on ilka green loanin’,
The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.
At buchts in the mornin’, nae blythe lads are scornin’,
Lasses are lanely, and dowie, and wae;
Nae daffin’, nae gabbin’, but sighin’ and sabbin’,
Ilk ane lifts her laiglin and hies her away.
In har’st at the shearin’, nae youths now are jeerin’,
The bandsters are runkled, and lyart and gray;
At fair or at preachin’, nae wooin’, nae fleechin’,—
The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.
At e’en, in the gloamin’, nae swankies are roamin’
’Bout stacks, ’mang the lassies at bogle to play;
But each ane sits dreary, lamentin’ her dearie,—
The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.
Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border!
The English for ance by guile wan the day;
The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,
The prime of our land now lie cauld in the clay.
We’ll hear nae mair liltin’ at our ewe-milkin’,
Women and bairns are dowie and wae;
Sighin’ and moanin’ on ilka green loanin’,—
The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.
Jean Elliott.
