Banks of 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!
Thoul’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 pn’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!
green grow the rashes, O!
The sweetest hours that e’er I spend,
are spent amang the lasses, O!
There’s nought but caro 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, Sec.
