Randomness on a Sunday evening
Kind of a Poetry Sunday. Lament for Flodden* 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 … Read more