Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn,
⁠And blithe 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 longer.

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.