Robert Burns (1759-1796 / Ayrshire / Scotland)

YE flowery banks o' bonnie 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 bonnie 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 bonnie bird,
   That sings beside thy mate;
For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
   And wistna o' my fate.

Aft hae I roved by bonnie 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 a morn in June;
And sae I flourish'd on the morn,
   And sae was pu'd or' noon.

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.