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.