Robert Burns

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SWEET fa’s the eve on Craigie-burn,
  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 anither,
When yon green leaves fa’ frae the tree,
  Around my grave they’ll wither.