This text comes from The Poetical Works of Robert Burns, a historical songbook transcribed on Wikisource and reproduced from the pinned revision linked below.
Now health forsakes that angel face,
Nae mair my Dearie smiles;
Pale sickness withers ilka grace,
And a' my hopes beguiles.
The cruel powers reject the prayer
I hourly mak for thee;
Ye Heavens, how great is my despair,
How can I see him die!