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 thro' the flowering thorn: 
Thou minds me o' departed joys,
  Departed -- never to return!

Aft hae I rov'd 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 pu'd a rose,
  Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree;
And my fause luver stole the rose,
  But, ah! he left the thorn wi' me.