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 through the flowering thorn;
Thou minds me of departed joys,
⁠Departed, never to return.

Oft ha'e I roved by bonnie Doon,
⁠To see the rose and woodbine twine;
And hear ilk bird sing o' its love,
⁠As fondly sae did I o' mi
​Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
⁠Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree;
But my fause lover stole my rose,
⁠And left the sharpest thorn wi' me