craigieburn wood
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,