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’ll break my he’rt, thou warbling bird,
That wantons thro’ the flow’ry thorn!
Thou minds me o’ departed joys,
Departed never tae return.

Aft hae I rov’d by bonnie Doon
Tae see the rose and woodbine twine,
And ilka bird sang o’ its love,
And fondly sae did I o’ mine.
Wi’ lichtsome he’rt I pu’d a rose,
Fu’ sweet upon its thorny tree!
And my fause lover stole my rose,
But ah! he left the thorn wi’ me.

Robert Burns (1759-1796)