Sweet fa’s the eve on Craigieburn,
And blythe awakes the morrow;
But a’the pride o’Spring’s return
Can yield me nochtbut sorrow.

I see the flowers and spreading trees,
I hear the wild birds singing;
But what a weary wightcan please,
And Care his bosom wringing!

Fain, fainwould I my griefs impart,
Yet dare nafor your anger;
Butsecret love will break my heart,
If I conceal it langer.

If thou refuse to pity me,
If thou shalt love another,
When yongreen leaves fade fraethe tree,
Around my grave they’ll wither.