At e’en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming ’Bout stacks with the lasses at bogle to play; But ilk maid sits dreary, lamenting her deary— 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, are cauld in the clay. 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. JEAN ELLIOT (1727-1805). The following poem also gives eloquent and touching expression to the deep gloom which descended upon the Border after the fatal battle, and tells of the despair felt in almost every Ettrick home:— *SELKIRK AFTER FLODDEN* (A WIDOW’S DIRGE, OCTOBER 1513) It’s but a month the morn Sin’ a’ was peace and plenty; Oor hairst was halflins shorn, Eident men and lasses denty. But noo it’s a’ distress— Never mair a merry meetin ’; For half the bairns are faitherless, And a’ the women greetin’. O Flodden Field! Miles and miles round Selkirk toun, Where forest flow’rs are fairest, Ilka lassie’s stricken doun, Wi’ the fate that fa’s the sairest. A’ the lads they used to meet By Ettrick braes or Yarrow Lyin’ thrammelt head and feet In Brankstone’s deadly barrow! O Flodden Field! Frae every cleuch and clan The best o’ the braid Border Rose like a single man To meet the royal order. Oor Burgh toun itsel’ Sent its seventy doun the glen; Ask Fletcher[#] how they fell, Bravely fechtin’, ane to ten! O Flodden Field! [#] This was the man who brought an English flag back to Selkirk from Flodden. Four brothers of that name are said to have perished in the battle. Round about their gallant king, For country and for croun, Stude the dauntless Border ring, Till the last was hackit doun. I blame na what has been— They maun fa’ that canna flee— But oh, to see what I hae seen, To see what now I see! O Flodden Field! The souters a’ fu’ croose, O’er their leather and their lingle, Wi’ their shoon in ilka hoose, Sat contentit round the ingle. Noo there’s naething left but dool,— Never mair their work will cheer them; In Flodden’s bluidy pool They’ll neither wait nor wear them! O Flodden Field! Whar the weavers used to meet, In ilka bieldy corner, Noo there’s nane in a’ the street, Savin’ here and there a mourner, Walkin’ lonely as a wraith, Or if she meet anither, Just a word below their braith O’ some slauchtered son or brither! O Flodden Field!