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!
Thoull 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 rovd 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 pud a rose,
Fu sweet upon its thorny tree!
And may fause Luver staw my rose,
But ah! he left the thorn wi me.