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,
The bandsters are lyart, and runkled and grey;