When rosy May comes in wi' flowers,
To deck her gay, green, spreading bowers;
Then busy, busy are his hours,
The Gard'ner wi' his paidle.
The chrystal waters gently fa';
The merry birds are lovers a';
The scented breezes round him blaw
The Gardener wi' his paidle.
When purple morning starts the hare
To steal upon her early fare;
Then thro' the dews he maun repair,
The Gardener wi' his paidle.
When day, expiring in the west,
The curtain draws of Nature's rest;
He flies to her arms he lo'es the best,
The Gardener wi' his paidle.
By Robert Burns
