Ye flowery banks o’ bonie Doon,
How can ye blume sae fair?
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae fu’ o’ care?
Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonie bird,
That sings upon the bough;
Thou minds me o’ the happy days,
When my fause luve was true.
Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonie bird,
That sings beside thy mate;
For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
And wist na o’ my fate.
Aft hae I roved by bonie Doon
To see the woodbine twine,
And ilka bird sang o’ its luve,
And sae did I o’ mine.
Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose
Frae aff its thorny tree;
And my fause luver staw my rose
But left the thorn wi’ me.
