Of the siller birk in Earlsburn Wood
They framit the maiden's bier!
There's a lonely dame in a gudely bouir,
She never lifts an ee—
That dame was ance the Rose sae red,
She is now a pale Lilye.
A knicht aft looks frae his turret tall,
Where the kirk-yaird grass grows green;
He wonne the weed and lost the flouir,
And grief aye dims his een.