Page:Flowers of the forest (3).pdf/3

 ( 3 ) O fickle fortune! why this cruel sporting!,

O why ſtill perplex us poor sons of a day?

Nae mair your smiles can cheer me, nae

mair your frowns can fear me,

For the flowers of the foreſt are withered

away.

The Battle of Flowdenhill.

I'VE 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 foreſters are a wede away.

At bughts in the morning, nae blythe lads

are scorning,

The laſſes are lonely, dowie, and wae;

Nae daffin, nae gabbin, but ſighing and

sabbing,

Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away.

At e'en at the gloamin, nae swankies are

roaming,

'Mongſt ſtacks with the laſſes at bogle to

play,