| 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. |
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Thursday, 22 September 2011
Craigieburn Wood-Robert Burns
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