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.