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Robert Burns - To The Wood-Lark
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O stay, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay,
Nor quit for me the trembling spray,
A hapless lover courts thy lay,
     Thy soothing fond complaining.

Again, again that tender part,
That I may catch thy melting art,
For surely that wad touch her heart,
     Wha kills me wi` disdaining.

Say, was thy little mate unkind,
And heard thee as the careless wind?
Oh, nocht but lobve and sorrow join`d,
     Sic notes o` woe could wauken.

Thou tells o` never-ending care;
O` speechless grief, and dark despair;
For pity`s sake, sweet bird, nae mair!
     Or my poor heart is broken!
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