Sweet fa's the eve on Craigieburn,
 And blythe awakens 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 darena 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 anither,
When yon green leaves fade frae the tree,
 Around my grave they'll wither.