Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
  How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair;
How can ye [chant]1, ye little birds,
  And I sae weary, fu' o' care!
Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird,
  That [wantons]2 thro' the [flowering]3 thorn: 
Thou minds me o' departed joys,
  Departed -- never to return!

[Aft]4 hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon,
  To see the rose and woodbine twine;
And ilka bird sang o' its [luve]5,
  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]6 [stole the]7 rose,
  [But, ah! he]8 left the thorn wi' me.

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Confirmed with The Complete Works of Robert Burns: Containing His Poems, Songs and Correspondence. With a New Life of the Poet, and Notices, Critical and Biographical, by Allan Cunningham. Elegantly illustrated, Boston: Phillips, Sampson, and Company, 1859, page 257.

¹ Grainger, Quilter: "chaunt"
² Grainger: "warbles"
³ Quilter: "flower"; Grainger: "flow'ring"
⁴ Quilter: "Oft"
⁵ Quilter: "love"
⁶ Grainger, Quilter: "But my fause lover"
⁷ Grainger: "staw my"
⁸ Quilter: "And oh, he"

Text Authorship:

• by Robert Burns (1759 - 1796), "The Banks o' Doon", subtitle: "[Second version]"

See other settings of this text.

Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):

• CZE Czech (Čeština) (Josef Václav Sládek) , "Břehy Doonu"
• FRE French (Français) (Guy Laffaille) , copyright © 2017, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
• IRI Irish (Gaelic) [singable] (Gabriel Rosenstock) , copyright © 2014, (re)printed on this website with kind permission

Researcher for this page: John Versmoren

This text was added to the website: 2004-07-11
Line count: 16
Word count: 118

Ihr Hügel dort am schönen Doon,
Wie könnt ihr nur so üppig blühn?
Wie könnt ihr singen, ihr Vögelein,
Da Sorgen mir im Busen glühn?
Vernehm' ich euren muntern Sang,
Durchbebt es meine wunde Brust;
Und flattert ihr durch grünes Laub,
Denk' ich vergangner süßer Lust.

An deinem Ufer streift' ich, Doon;
Waldreb' und Rose freuten mich,
Von Liebe sang das Vögelein,
Von meiner Liebe sang auch ich.
Und eine Rose, frisch erblüht
In Lenzesmilde, pflückt' ich hier;
Mein Liebster stahl das Röslein roth,
Und ach! die Dornen ließ er mir.