John Anderson my Jo/The Banks O' Doon
For other versions of this work, see The Banks O' Doon.
THE BANKS O’ DOON.
YE banks and braes o’ bonny Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair,
How can ye chaunt, ye little birds,
And I sae weary fu’ o’ care.
How can ye chaunt, ye little birds,
That wanton through the flow’ry thorn;
Ye mind me o’ departed joys,
Departed never to return.
Oft hae I roam’d by bonny Doon,
To see the rose and woodbine twine;
Whar ilka bird sang o’ its love,
And fondly sae did I o’ mine.
Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose,
Fu’ sweet upon its thorny tree;
And my fause love has stown the rose,
But ah! he left the thorn wi’ me.