 | The Poetry of Robert Burns |  |
48
THE GARD'NER WI' HIS PAIDLE
I
When rosy May comes in wi' flowersTo deck her gay, green-spreading bowers,
Then busy, busy are his hours,
The gard'ner wi' his paidle.
II
The crystal waters gently fa',The merry birds are lovers a',
The scented breezes round him blaw—
The gard'ner wi' his paidle.
III
When purple morning starts the hareTo steal upon her early fare,
Then thro' the dew he maun repair—
The gard'ner wi' his paidle.
IV
When Day, expiring in the west,The curtain draws o' Nature's rest,
He flies to her arms he lo'es best,
The gard'ner wi' his paidle.
| The Poetry of Robert Burns | |