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?
Ye'll break my heart, ye warbling birds,
That wanton through the flow'ry thorn,
Ye 'mind me o' departed joys,
Departed never to return.
Oft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon,
To see the rose and woodbine twine;
And 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 lover stole my rose,
But ah! he left the thorn wi' me.
My world at 5: 45 AM

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