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' it's love, 
And fondly sae did I o' mine.
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose
Fu' sweet upon it's thorny tree
But my fause lover stole my rose, 
And Ah! he left the thorn wi' me.