I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking,
Lasses a' lilting before dawn o' day;
But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning—
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning,
Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae;
Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing,
Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away.

In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray:
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 eerie, lamenting 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, lie cauld in the clay.

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

Vaine loves avaunt, infamous is your pleasure,
Your joy deceit:
Your jewels jests, and worthelesse trash your treasure,
Fooles common bait.
Your pallace is a prison that allureth
To sweet mishap, and rest that paine procureth,

Your garden griefe, hedg'd in with thornes of envie,
And stakes of strife:
Your Allyes errour graveled with Jelosie,
And cares of life.
Your bankes are seates enwrapt with shades of sadnes,
Your Arbours breed rough fittes of raging madnes.

Your beds are sowne with seedes of all iniquitie,
And poys'ning weeds:
Whose stalkes evill thoughts, whose leaves words full of vanity,
Whose fruite misdeedes.
Whose sap is sinne, whose force and operation,
To banish grace, and worke the soules damnation.

Your trees are dismall plantes of pyning corrosives,
Whose roote is ruth.
Whose barke is bale, whose tymber stubborne fantasyes:
Whose pyth untruth.
On which in liewe of birdes whose voyce delighteth:
Of guiltie conscience screeching note affrighteth.

Your coolest summer gales are scalding sighings,
Your shoures are teares,
Your sweetest smell the stench of sinfull livyng,
Your favoures feares,
Your gardener Sathan, all you reape is misery:
Your gaine remorse and losse of all felicitie.