Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon|
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?
How can ye chaunt, ye little birds
And I sae weary full o' care?
Ye'll break my heart, ye warbling bird
That wantons thro' the flow'ry thorn
Ye mind o' departed joys
Departed never to return.
Oft hae I roved by bonnie Doon
To see the rose and woodbine twine
And ilka bird sang o' its love
And fondly sae did I o' mine
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose
Full sweet upon its thorny tree
And my fause lover stole my rose
But ah! he left the thorn wi' me.