Their bodies, bath’d in purple blood, They bore with them away; They kiss’d them dead a thousand times, When they were clad in clay.
This news was brought to Edinburgh, Where Scotland’s king did reign, That brave earl Douglas suddenly Was with an arrow slain.
O heavy news! king James did say, Scotland can witness be, I have not any captain more Of such account as he.
Like tidings to king Henry came, Within as short a space, That Percy of Northumberland Was slain in Chevy Chase.
Now God be with him! said our king, Sith ’twill no better be; I trust I have within my realm Five hundred as good as he.
Yet shall not Scot nor Scotland say, But I will vengeance take; And be revenged on them all, For brave lord Percy’s sake.
This vow full well the king perform’d, After, on Humble-down; In one day fifty knights were slain, With lords of great renown;
And of the rest, of small account, Did many hundreds die. Thus ended the hunting of Chevy Chase, Made by the earl Percy.
God save the king, and bless the land In plenty, joy, and peace; And grant, henceforth, that foul debate ’Twixt noblemen may cease.
I Have heard of a lilting, at our ewes’ milking, Lasses a lilting, before the break of day; But now there’s a moaning, on ilka green loaning, That our braw forresters are a’ wede away.
At boughts, in the morning, nae blyth lads are scorning; The lasses are lonely, dowie, and wae; Nae daffin, nae gabbin, but sighing and sabbing, Ilka ane lifts her leglen, and hies her away.
At e’en at the gloming, nae swankies are roaming, ’Mong stacks, with the lasses, at bogle to play; But ilka ane sits dreary, lamenting her deary, The Flowers of the Forest that are a’ wede away.
At harrest, at the shearing, nae youngsters are jeering, The bansters are runkled, lyart, and grey. At a fair, or a preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching, Since our braw forresters are a’ wede away.
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.