O say, is there ane wha does nae rejoice,
To hear the first note o' the wee birdie's voice;
When in the grey mornin' o' cauld early spring,
The snaw-draps appear, an' the wee birdies sing;
The voice o' the spring, O how does it cheer!
The winter's awa', the simmer is near.

In your mantle o' green, we see thee, fair spring,
O'er our banks an' our braes, the wild flowers ye fling;
The crocus sae gay, in her rich gowden hue;
The sweet violets hid 'mang the moss an' the dew;
The bonnie white gowan, an' oh! the sweet brier
A' tell it is spring, an' simmer is near.

An' they, wha in sorrow or sickness do pine,
Feel blythe wi' the flowers an' sunshine o' spring;
Tho' aft, in dear Scotia, the cauld wind will blaw,
An' cow'r a' the blossoms wi' frost and wi' snaw,
Yet the cloud it will pass, the sky it will clear,
And the birdies will sing - the simmer is near.