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the banks o' doon.
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.
Ye'll break my heart, ye little birds,
That wanton thro' the flow'ry thorn;
Ye mind me o' departed joys,
Departed never to return.
Oft hae I roam'd by bonnie 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.
finis.
