The poem
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.