Classic Poem

I've heard the lilting at our yowe-milking,
Lasses a-lilting before the dawn o' day;
But now they are moaning in ilka green loaning:
"The Flowers of 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 her 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 of the Forest are a' wede away.

At e'en, in 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 of the Forest are a' wede away.

Dule and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border;
The English, for ance, by guile won the day:
The Flowers of the Forest, that foucht aye the foremost,
The prime o' our land, are cauld in the clay.

We'll hear nae mair lilting at the yowe-milking,
Women and bairns are heartless and wae;
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning;
"The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.'