(Robert Burns)

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?
How can ye chaunt, ye little birds,
And I sae weary, fu' o' care.
     Ye'll break my heart, ye warbling birds
     That wanton through the flowery thorn,
     Ye mind me o' departed joys,
     Departed, never to return.

Oft hae I roved by bonnie Doon
To see the rose and woodbine twine,
And 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
     But my fause lover stole my rose,
     And Ah! he left the thorn wi' me.

@love @river @Scots
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