This text comes from The Poetical Works of Robert Burns, a historical songbook transcribed on Wikisource and reproduced from the pinned revision linked below.
No more, ye warblers of the wood—no more!
Nor pour your descant, grating, on my soul;
Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole,
More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar.
How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your dyes?
Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend:
How can I to the tuneful strain attend?
That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where Riddel lies.
Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe!
And sooth the Virtues weeping on this bier:
The Man of Worth, and has not left his peer,
Is in his "narrow house" for ever darkly low.
Thee, Spring, again with joys shall others greet;
Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet.