Ye banks and braes o' bonie 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. 
 
Aft I rov'd by Bonie 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! 
Any my fause luver staw my rose, 
But ah! he left the thorn wi' me.