Robert Burns

Carigieburn Wood

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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