The Singers' Companion/Banks of Doon
For other versions of this work, see The Banks O' Doon.
THE BANKS O’ DOON.
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’lt break my heart, thou warbling bird,
That wantons through the flowering thorn;
Thou minds me of departed joys,
Departed, never to return.
Oft ha’e I roved by bonnie Doon,
To see the rose and woodbine twine;
And hear ilk bird sing o’ its love,
As fondly sae did I o’ mine
Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose,
Fu’ sweet upon its thorny tree;
But my fause lover stole my rose,
And left the sharpest thorn wi’ me