The Banks of Doon

YE banks and braes o' bonny Doon, How can you bloom sae fresh and fair? How can ye chant ye little birds, While I’m sae weary—fu' o care, Ye’ll break my heart ye little birds, That warble on the flow’ry thorn; Ye mind me o’ departed joys, Departed, never to return.

Aft hae I roam’d by bonny Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine, Where ilka bird sung o'er its note, And cheerfully I join'd wi' mine. Wi' heartsome glee I gaed to pu' A rose out o' yon thorny tree: But my fause love had stown the rose, And ah! he’s left the thorn to me.

O blaw, ye flowers, your bonny blooms, and draw the wild birds by the burn, For Lubin promis'd me a ring, and ye maun aid me should I mourn, Ah, na, na, na, ye needna bloom, my een are dim and drowsy worn, Ye bonny birds ye needna sing, for Lubia never will return.

Ye roses blaw your bonny blooms, And draw the wild birds by the burn, Where oft I drop the silent tear, For him that never will return. Sweet birds I ken ye'll pity me, And join me wi' a plaintive sang, While echo wakes, and joins the mane I mak for him I loe’d sae lang,