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 full o care,
Yell break my heart ye warbling birds,
That wanton through the flowery thorn,
Ye mind me o departed joys,
Departed never to return.
Oft hae I roved by bonnie Doon,
To see the rose and woodbine twine,
And And ilka bird sang O its love,
And fondly sae did I o mine.
Wi lightsome heart I pulled a rose,
Full sweet upon its thorny tree,
And my false lover Stole my rose,
But ah! He left the thorn in me