The Banks O' Doon
by Robert Burns (1759–1796)

e flowery banks o' bonie Doon,
How can ye blume sae fair!
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
An 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 rov'd 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 the rose,
But left the thorn wi' me.

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