(Robert Burns) Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair? How can ye chaunt, ye little birds, And I sae weary, fu' o' care. Ye'll 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 ilka bird sang o' its love, And fondly sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree But my fause lover stole my rose, And Ah! he left the thorn wi' me.
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