Sweet fa's the eve on Craigieburn,

And blythe awakes the morrow;

But a' the pride o' Spring's return

Can yield me nocht but sorrow.

I see the flowers 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.