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Ye banks and braes o' bonnie doon |
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How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair? |
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How can ye chant, ye little birds, |
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And i'm sae weary, fu' o' care! |
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Y'ell break my heart, ye warbling bird, |
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That wantons through the flow'ring thorn |
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Ye mind me o' departed joys, |
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Departed, never to return. |
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Oft i have roved by bonnie doon |
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To see the rose of woodbine twine; |
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And ilka bird sand o' its luve, |
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And fondly sae did i o'mine. |
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We lightsome hearts i stretch'd my hand |
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And pu'd a rosebud from the tree; |
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But my fause lover stole the rose |
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And left, and left the thorn wi' me |
