Ye banks and braes o' Bonnie Doon,
|
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?
|
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
|
And I'm sae weary, fu' o' care!
|
Ye'll break my heart, ye warbling birds,
|
That wanton through the flow'ring thorn
|
Ye mind me o' departed joys,
|
Departed, never to return.
|
|
Oft I have rove by bonnie doon,
|
To see the rose of woodbine twine;
|
And ilka bird sang of its love,
|
And fondly sae did I o' mine.
|
Wi' lightsome heart I put a rose,
|
Full sweet upon the thorny tree.
|
But my false lover stole my rose,
|
And ah, she left the thorn wi' me.
|
|
-----------------
|
Ye Banks and Braes of Bonnie Doon
|
| John McDermott |
