the teardrop
    wae is my heart, and the tear's in my e'e;
    lang, lang has joy been a stranger to me:
    forsaken and friendless, my burden i bear,
    and the sweet voice o' pity ne'er sounds in my ear.
    love thou hast pleasures, and deep hae i luv'd;
    love, thou hast sorrows, and sair hae i pruv'd;
    but this bruised heart that now bleeds in my breast,
    i can feel, by its throbbings, will soon be at rest.
    oh, if i were—where happy i hae been—
    down by yon stream, and yon bonie castlegreen;
    for there he is wand'ring and musing on me,
    wha wad soon dry the teardrop that clings to my e'e.