7
Nor can wi' lordly Thanes compare,
who woo the maid to marry:
But she ne'er scornfu' looks on me,
and joy may yet betide?
For hope dares flatter mine may be,
sweet Kitty o' the Clyde.
Banks o' Doon.
YE banks and braes o' bonny Doon,
How can you bloom sae fresh and fair?
How can ye chant ye little birds,
While I’m sae weary—fu' o care,
Ye’ll break my heart ye little birds,
That warble on the flow’ry thorn;
Ye mind me o’ departed joys,
Departed, never to return.
Aft hae I roam’d by bonny Doon,
To see the rose and woodbine twine,
Where ilka bird sung o'er its note,
And cheerfully I join'd wi' mine.
Wi' heartsome glee I gaed to pu'
A rose out o' yon thorny tree:
But my fause love had stown the rose,
And ah! he’s left the thorn to me.
O blaw, ye flowers, your bonny blooms,
