To whare the blossomed lilacs grow—
To whare the pine-tree, dark an' high,
Is pointing its tap at the cloudless sky.
Jeanie, mony a merry lay
Is sung in the young-leaved woods to-day;
Flits on light wing the dragon-flee,
An' bums on the flowrie the big red-bee.
Down the burnie wirks its way
Aneath the bending birken spray,