Ye banks and braes o’ bonie Doon,How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?How can ye chant, ye little birds,And I sae weary fu’ o’ care!Thou’ll break my heart, thou warbling bird,That wantons thro’ the flowering thorn:Thou minds me o’ departed joys,Departed never to return.
Aft hae I rov’d by Bonie 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 may fause Luver staw my rose,But ah! he left the thorn wi’ me.