The Banks o' Doon

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!

Thou'lt 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 bonnie 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 my fause luver stole the rose,

But, ah! he left the thorn wi' me.