John Anderson my Jo/The Banks O' Doon

by Robert Burns (1759-1796)

For other versions of this work, see The Banks O' Doon.

THE BANKS O’ DOON.

YE banks and braes o’ bonny Doon,
⁠How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair,
How can ye chaunt, ye little birds,
⁠And I sae weary fu’ o’ care.
How can ye chaunt, ye little birds,
⁠That wanton through the flow’ry thorn;
Ye mind me o’ departed joys,
⁠Departed never to return.

Oft hae I roam’d by bonny Doon,
⁠To see the rose and woodbine twine;
Whar 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;
And my fause love has stown the rose,
⁠But ah! he left the thorn wi’ me.