Aft hae I rov’d by bonie Doon,
     To see the woodbine twine;
     And ilka birds sang o’ its Luve,
     And sae did I o’ mine: 
     Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose,
     Upon its thorny tree;
     But my fause Luver staw my rose
     And left the thorn wi’ me: 
     Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose,
     Upon a morn in June;
     And sae I flourished on the morn,
     And sae was pu’d or noon!

The Banks O’ Doon—­Second Version

     Ye flowery banks o’ bonie Doon,
     How can ye blume sae fair? 
     How can ye chant, ye little birds,
     And I sae fu’ o care! 
     Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonie bird,
     That sings upon the bough! 
     Thou minds me o’ the happy days
     When my fause Luve was true. 
     Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonie bird,
     That sings beside thy mate;
     For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
     And wist na o’ my fate.

     Aft hae I rov’d by bonie Doon,
     To see the woodbine twine;
     And ilka bird sang o’ its Luve,
     And sae did I o’ mine. 
     Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose,
     Upon its thorny tree;
     But my fause Luver staw my rose,
     And left the thorn wi’ me. 
     Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose,
     Upon a morn in June;
     And sae I flourished on the morn,
     And sae was pu’d or noon.

The Banks O’ Doon—­Third Version

     Ye banks and braes o’ bonie Doon,
     How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair? 
     How can ye chant, ye little birds,
     And I sae weary fu’ o’ care! 
     Thou’ll break my heart, thou warbling bird,
     That wantons thro’ the flowering thorn: 
     Thou minds me o’ departed joys,
     Departed never to return.

     Aft hae I rov’d by Bonie Doon,
     To see the rose and woodbine twine: 
     And ilka bird sang o’ its Luve,
     And fondly sae did I o’ mine;
     Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose,
     Fu’ sweet upon its thorny tree! 
     And may fause Luver staw my rose,
     But ah! he left the thorn wi’ me.

Lament For James, Earl Of Glencairn

     The wind blew hollow frae the hills,
     By fits the sun’s departing beam
     Look’d on the fading yellow woods,
     That wav’d o’er Lugar’s winding stream: 
     Beneath a craigy steep, a Bard,
     Laden with years and meikle pain,
     In loud lament bewail’d his lord,
     Whom Death had all untimely ta’en.

     He lean’d him to an ancient aik,
     Whose trunk was mould’ring down with years;
     His locks were bleached white with time,
     His hoary cheek was wet wi’ tears! 
     And as he touch’d his trembling harp,
     And as he tun’d his doleful sang,
     The winds, lamenting thro’ their caves,
     To Echo bore the notes alang.