Page:Robert Burn's (sic) song-book.pdf/3



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!

Thonl't break my heart thou warbling bird,

that wantons thro' the flow'ring thorn,

Thou minds me o' departed joys,

departed never to return.

Oft hae I roved by bonny Doon,

to see the rose and woodbine twine;

And ilka bird sang o' its love,

and foundly 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 thorn wi' me.

Green grow the rashes O!

green grow the rashes, O!

The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,

are spent amang the lasses, O!

There's nought but care on every han',

in ev'ry hour that passes, O ;

What signifies the life o' man,

and 'twere na for the lasses, O,

Green grow, &c.