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’ll break my heart, thou warbling bird
That wantons thro’ the flowering thorn:
Thou minds me o’ departed joys
Departed, never to return!

Oft 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 staw my rose
But, ah! He left the thorn wi’ me