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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.