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' of care? Ye'll break my heart, ye warbling birds, That wanton through the flowerin' thorn, Ye mind me o' departed joys, Departed never to return Oft ha'e I roved by bonnie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine, And ilka bird sang o' his love, As fondly sais it I o' mine, With lightsome heart I put a rose Full sweet upon its thorny tree, And my false lover stole my rose, But ah she left the thorn with me.