Bonny Doon.

Bonny Doon.
ROBERT BURNS.
422.5

Ye banks and braes of bonny Doun,
How can ye bloom sa fresh and fair?
How can ye chaunt ye little birds,
Wille I’m no wae and full o’ care?
Ye’ll break my heart, ye little birds,
That wander through that flow’ring thorn
To mind me of departed joya.
Departed, never to return.

Oft have I roam’d by bonny Doun,
To see the rose and woodbine twine.
Where liku bird sung o’er its note,
And cheerfully I join’d with mine.
WP heartsone glee I pu’d a гохе,
A rose out of you thorny tree:
Bat my false love has flown the rose,
And left the thorn behind to me.

Ye roses blow your bonny blooms.
And draw the wild birds by the burn.
Per Luman promis’d me a ring.
And ye moun ald me should I mourn.
Ah! na, na, na, we need to mourn,
My een are dim and drowsy worn:
Te honny birda
For Woman we need to sing, never can return.

My Lunman’s love, In broken sighs,
At dawn of day by Doun ye’se hear:
And midday, by the willow green,
For him I’d shed a silent tear.
Sweet hirde, I ken ye’ll pity me,
And join me wi’ a plaintive sang.
While echo wakes, and joins the mane
I raake for him I lo’ed sae lang.