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' of care?
Ye'll break my heart, ye warbling birds,
That wanton through the flowerin' thorn,
Ye mind me o' departed joys,
Departed never to return
Oft ha'e I roved by bonnie Doon,
To see the rose and woodbine twine,
And ilka bird sang o' his love,
As fondly sais it I o' mine,
With lightsome heart I put a rose
Full sweet upon its thorny tree,
And my false lover stole my rose,
But ah she left the thorn with me.