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.