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, full o' care? Ye'll break my heart, ye warbling bird, That warble on the flowery thorn, Ye mind me o' departed joys, Departed never to return. Oft have I roved by bonnie Doon To see the rose and woodbine twine; By morning and by evening shine To hear the birds sing o' their loves, As fondly once I sang o' mine; Wi' lightsome heart I stretched my hand And pulled a rosebud from the tree But my lover stole the rose And left, and left the thorn wi' me.