We’ll hear nae mair lilting at our 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.
JENNY GRAHAME
18th century
71. Wedlock
Alas! my son, you little know,
The sorrows which from wedlock flow:
Farewell, sweet hours of mirth and ease,