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,