Craigieburn Wood

     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.