Craigieburn Wood

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigieburn,

And blythe awakes the morrow,

But a' the pride of spring's return

Can yield me nought but sorrow.

I see the flow'rs and spreading trees,

I hear the wild birds singing;

But what a weary wight can please,

And care his bosom wringing?

Fain, fain, would I my griefs impart,

Yet dare na for your anger;

But secret love will break my heart,

If I conceal it langer.

If thou refuse to pity me,

If thou shalt love another,

When yon green leaves fade frae the tree,

Around my grave they'll wither.