Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?
How can ye chant ye little birds,
And I sae weary, fu' o' care?
2. Ye'll break my heart, ye warbling birds,
That wanton through the flow'ry thorn,
Ye 'mind me o' departed joys,
Departed never to return.
3. Oft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon,
To see the rose and woodbine twine;
And ilka bird sang o' its love,
And fondly sae did I o' mine.
4. 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.