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The Banks o' Doon.
Ye banks and braes o’ bonny 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 thro' the flowering thorn:
Thou minds me o' departed joys.
Departed—never to return!
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 thro' the flowering thorn:
Thou minds me o' departed joys.
Departed—never to return!
Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon,
To see the rose and woodbine twine;
And ilka bird sang o' its luve,
And fondly sae did I o' mine.
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree;
And my fause luver stole my rose,
But, ah! he left the thorn to me.
To see the rose and woodbine twine;
And ilka bird sang o' its luve,
And fondly sae did I o' mine.
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree;
And my fause luver stole my rose,
But, ah! he left the thorn to me.
The Cardin' O't.
I coft a stane o' haslock woo',
To make a wat to Johnny o't;
For Johnny is my only jo.
I loe him best of ony yet.
The cardin' o't, the spinnin' o't,
The warpin' o't, the winnin' o't;
When ilka ell cost me a groat,
The tailor staw the linin' o't.
To make a wat to Johnny o't;
For Johnny is my only jo.
I loe him best of ony yet.
The cardin' o't, the spinnin' o't,
The warpin' o't, the winnin' o't;
When ilka ell cost me a groat,
The tailor staw the linin' o't.
For though his lock be lyart grey.
And though his brow be bald aboon;
Yet I hae seen him on a day,
The pride of a' the parishen.
And though his brow be bald aboon;
Yet I hae seen him on a day,
The pride of a' the parishen.
