Sweet are the banks — the banks o' Doon,
     The spreading flowers are fair,
 And everything is blythe and glad,
     But I am 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 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

Как можешь течь ты, вольный Дун?

 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.

 Как можешь течь ты, вольный Дун,
 Как можешь цвесть ты, пышный луг,
 Когда полна я горьких дум,
 Когда больна от тяжких мук?

 Мне ранит сердце песнь щегла,
 Терновый куст мне колет грудь.
 Мне все твердит, что жизнь прошла,
 Что дней минувших не вернуть...

 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,
     ' sweet upon its thorny tree!
 And may fause Luver staw my rose,
     But ah! he left the thorn wi' me.

 Я помню, Дун, струи твои,
 Зеленый холм и тень ветвей,
 Где птицы пели о любви,
 Как я когда-то о своей.

 Но если дом покинув друг,
 Но если смолкло пенье струн —
 Как можешь цвесть ты, пышный луг,
 Как можешь течь ты, водный Дун?