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'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons thro' the flowering thorn: Thou minds me o' departed joys,
Departed never to return.
Oft hae I rov'd by bonie Doon,
To see the rose and woodbine twine;
And ilka bird sang o' its love,
And fondly 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 the thorn wi' me.
SWEET fa's the eve on Cragie-burn,
And blithe awakes the morrow,
But a' the pride o' spring's return
Can yield me nocht but sorrow.
I see the flowers and spreading trees,
I hear the wild birds singing;
But what a weary wight can please,
And care his bosom wringing?
Fain, fain would I my griefs impart,
Yet dare na for your anger;
But secret love will break my heart,
IfI conceal it langer.
If thou refuse to pity me,
If thou shalt love anither,
When yon green leaves fade frae the tree, Around my grave they'll wither.
AGAIN rejoicing Nature sees
Her robe assume its vernal hues, Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, All freshly steep'd in morning dews.
In vain to me the cowslips blaw,
In vain to me the vi'lets spring;
In vain to me, in glen or shaw,
The mavis and the lintwhite sing.
The merry plough-boy cheers his team,
Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks,
But life to me's a weary dream,
A dream of ane that never wauks.
The wanton coot the water skims,
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry,
The stately swan majestic swims,
And every thing is blest but I.
The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap,
And owre the moorlands whistles shrill.
Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step
I meet him on the dewy hill.
And when the lark, 'tween light and dark,
Blythe waukens by the daisy's side,
And mounts and sings on flittering wings,
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.
Come, Winter, with thine angry howl,
And raging bend the naked tree;
Thy gloom will sooth my cheerless soul,
When nature all is sad like me!
Now spring has clad the groves in green,
And strew'd the lea wi" flowers;
The furrow'd waving corn is seen
Rejoice in fostering showers;
While ilka thing in nature join
Their sorrows to forego,
O why thus all alone are mine
The weary steps of woe!
The trout within yon wimpling burn
Glides swift, a silver dart,
And safe beneath the shady thorn
Defies the angler's art:
My life was ance that careless stream,
That wanton trout was I;
But love, wi' unrelenting beam,
Has scorch'd my fountains dry.
The little flow'ret's peaceful lot,
In yonder cliff that grows,
Which, save the linnet's flight, I wet,
Nae ruder visit knows,
Was mine; till love has o'er me past,
And blighted a' my bloom,
And now beneath the withering Hast
My youth and joy consume.
The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs,
And climbs the early sky,
Winnowing blithe her dewy wings
In morning's rosy eye;
As little reckt I sorrow's power,
Until the flowery snare
O' witching love, in luckless hour,
Made me the thrall o' care.
O had my fate been Greenland snows,
Or Afric's burning zone,
Wi' Men and Natupe leagu'd my foes,
So peggy ne'er I'd known!
The wretch whase doom is, "hope nae mair,"
What tongue his woes can tell;
Within whase bosom, save despair,
Nae kinder spirits dwell.
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