Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair;
How can ye chant, ye little bird,
And I sae weary, fu' o' care!
Y'll break my he'rt, y' warbling bird,
That wantons thro' the flowering thorn:
Ye minds me o' departed joys,
Departed, never to return!
Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon,
To see the rose and woodbine twine:
And ilka bird sang o' its luve,
And fondly sae did I o' mine;
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree!
And my fause Lover stole my rose,
But ah! he left the thorn wi' me.