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When rosy May comes in wi' flowers, To deck her gay, green, spreading bowers; Then busy, busy are his hours, The Gard'ner wi' his paidle. The chrystal waters gently fa'; The merry birds are lovers a'; The scented breezes round him blaw The Gardener wi' his paidle. When purple morning starts the hare To steal upon her early fare; Then thro' the dews he maun repair, The Gardener wi' his paidle. When day, expiring in the west, The curtain draws of Nature's rest; He flies to her arms he lo'es the best, The Gardener wi' his paidle.