Yes, truly God is gracious, Who makes His sun to shine Upon the good and evil, And idle lives like mine.

Upon the just and unjust He sends His rain to fall, And gives this hour of blessing Freely alike to all.

Oh, where's the use of having gifts that can't be turned to money? And where's the use of singing, when there's no one wants to hear? It may be one or two will say your songs are sweet as honey, But where's the use of honey, when the loaf of bread is dear?

The sun shines fair on Tweedside, the river flowing bright, Your heart is full of pleasure, your eyes are full of light, Your cheeks are like the morning, your pearls are like the dew, Or morning and her dew-drops are like your pearls and you.

Because you are a princess, a princess of the land, You will not turn your lightsome eyes a moment where I stand, A poor unnoticed poet, a-making of his rhymes; But I have found a mistress, more fair a thousand times.

`Tis May, the elfish maiden, the daughter of the Spring, Upon whose birthday morning the birds delight to sing. They would not sing one note for you, if you should so command, Although you are a princess, a princess of the land.

Song is not dead, although to-day Men tell us everything is said. There yet is something left to say, Song is not dead.

While still the evening sky is red, While still the morning gold and grey, While still the autumn leaves are shed,