by Robert Burns, 1788
The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning,
The murmuring stream let winds clear thro’ the vale;
The primroses blow in the dews of the morning,
And wild scattered cowslips bedeck the green dale;
But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair,
When the lingering moments are numbered by care?
No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing,
Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair.
The deed that I dared, could it merit their malice?
A king and a father to place on his throne!
His right are these hills, and his right are those valleys,
Where the wild beasts find shelter, though I can find none!
But ‘'tis not my sufferings this wretched, forlorn
My brave gallant friend, ‘'Tis your ruin I mourn;
Your faith proved so loyal in hot bloody trial,
Alas! Can I make it no better return!