Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?
How can ye chatn, ye little birds,
And I'm sae weary, fu' o' care!
Ye'll break my heart, ye warbling bird,
That wantons through the flow'ring thron,
Ye mind me o' departed joys,
Departed never to return.
Oft ha'e I roved 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 stretch'd my hand,
And pu'd a rosebud from the tree;
But my fause lover stole the rose,
And left, and left the thorn wi' me.