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6

At e’en, in the gloanin,
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 har’st at the shearing,
Nae younkers arc jeering;
Tire bansters are lyart, rankled, and grey:
At fairs nor at preaching,
Nae wooing, nae sleeching,
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 Lads ly cold 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 have seen the smiling
Of fortune beguiling;
I have felt all her favours, and found her decay: