The English advanced To where they were stanced; Half-intrenched by nature, the field it so lay: To fight the English fearing, And sham’d their retiring; But alas! unperceived was their subtilty. Our Highland battalion, So forward and valiant, They broke from their ranks, and they rush’d on to slay: With hacking and slashing, And broad swords a-dashing, Thro’ the front of the English they cut a full way. But, alas! to their ruin, An ambush pursuing, They were surrounded with numbers too high: The Merse-men and Forest, They suff’red the sorest, Upon the left wing were inclos’d the same way. Our men into parties, The battle in three quarters, Upon our main body the marksmen did play: The spearmen were surrounded. And all were confounded; The fatal devastation of that woful day! Our nobles all ensnared, Our king he was not spared; For of that fate he shared, and would not run away; The whole were intercepted, That very few escaped The fatal conflagration of that woful day. This set the whole nation Into grief and vexation: The widows did weep, and the maidens did say, Why tarries my lover? The battle’s surely over? Is there none left to tell us the fates of the day? I’ve heard a lilting, At our ewes’ milking, Lasses a-lilting afore the break of day; But now there’s a moaning, On ilka green loaning, Since our bra foresters are a’ wed away. At boughts i’ the morning, Nae blyth lads are scorning; The lasses are lonely, dowie, and wae; Nae daffin, nae gabbin, But sighing and sabbing, Ilk ane lifts her leglen, and hies her away. At e’en in the glomin, 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 herst, at the shearing, Nae younkers are jeering; The bansters are lyart, runkled, and grey: At fairs nor at preaching, Nae wooing, nae fleeching, 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 land lies cauld 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.