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? Thou ’lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons through the flowering thorn; Thou minds me o’ departed joys, Departed—never to return. Thou ’lt break my heart, thou bonnie bird, That sings beside thy mate; For sae I sat, and sae I sang, And wistna o’ my fate. Aft hae I roved by bonnie 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 pou’d a rose, Fu’ sweet upon its thorny tree; And my fause luver stole my rose, But ah! he left the thorn wi’ me.