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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
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