This text comes from The Poetical Works of Robert Burns, a historical songbook transcribed on Wikisource and reproduced from the pinned revision linked below.
I do confess thou art sae fair,
I wad been o'er the lugs in luve;
Had I not found the slightest prayer
That lips could speak, thy heart could muve.
I do confess thee sweet, but find
Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweets,
Thy favours are the silly wind
That kisses ilka thing it meets.
See yonder rose-bud rich in dew,
Amang its native briers sae coy,
How soon it tines its scent and hue
When pu'd and worn a common toy!
Sic fate ere lang shall thee betide,
Tho' thou may gaily bloom a while;
Yet soon thou shalt be thrown aside,
Like onie common weed and vile.