Ye banks and braes o' bonie Doon, br How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair? br How can ye chant, ye little birds, br And I sae weary fu' o' care! br Thou'll break my heart, thou warbling bird, br That wantons thro' the flowering thorn: br Thou minds me o' departed joys, br Departed never to return. br br Aft I rov'd by Bonie Doon, br To see the rose and woodbine twine: br And ilka bird sang o' its luve, br And fondly sae did I o' mine. br Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, br Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree! br Any my fause luver staw my rose, br But ah! he left the thorn wi' me.