O dool for the order, sent our lads to the border:
The English for anes by guile gat the day.
The Flowers of the Forrest, 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 braw forresters are a’ wede away.