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. 4 At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning, Lassies are lonely and dowie and wae; Nae daffin’, nae gabbin’, but sighing and sabbing, Ilk ane lifts her leglin, and hies her away. In har’st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray; 10 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 younkers are roaming ’Bout stacks wi’ the lasses at bogle to play; But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie-- 15 The Flowers of the Forest are weded 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, are cauld in the clay. 20 We’ll hear nae mair lilting at the 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. _Jane Elliott._ CXLIII _WAE’S ME FOR PRINCE CHARLIE._ A wee bird came to our ha’ door; He warbled sweet and clearly; And aye the o’ercome o’ his sang Was ‘Wae’s me for Prince Charlie!’ Oh! when I heard the bonny, bonny bird, 5 The tears came drapping rarely; I took my bonnet aff my head, For weel I lo’ed Prince Charlie. Quoth I; ‘My bird, my bonny, bonny bird, Is that a tale ye borrow? 10 Or is’t some words ye’ve learned by rote, Or a lilt o’ dool and sorrow?’ Oh no, no, no,’ the wee bird sang, ‘I’ve flown sin’ morning early; But sic a day o’ wind and rain-- 15 Oh wae’s me for Prince Charlie! O’er hills that are by right his ain He roams a lonely stranger; On ilka hand he’s pressed by want, On ilka side by danger. 20 Yestreen I met him in the glen, My heart near bursted fairly: For sadly changed indeed was he-- Oh! wae’s me for Prince Charlie! ‘Dark night came on; the tempest howled 25 Out owre the hills and valleys; And whare was’t that your Prince lay down, Whase hame should be a palace? He rowed him in a Highland plaid, Which covered him but sparely, 30 And slept beneath a bush o’ broom-- Oh! wae’s me for Prince Charlie!’