O, there's nocht can tak' us back like the broom upon the brae,
In the auld, auld times that are noo sae far away,
When we gaed an' cam' thegither frae the schule in summer heat,
It's an auld, auld story, but it's sweet, sweet, sweet.
Is the broom still growin' bonnie on the brae abune the burn?
If I thocht it was as yellow—O, it's there my feet would turn,
For my heart is thick wi' fancies, an' a saft, sweet westlin' win'
Brings its scent up through the years that are noo sae far ahin'.
It canna be sae yellow as it used to be langsyne—
An' the burn has lost its music that was aye sae sweet an' fine.
I winna gang an' listen, it wad only mak' me sair,
For the voice it had in boyhood, is a voice it has nae mair.
We canna noo turn back, for it wad only bring us pain.
We've left a something far ahin' we canna fin' again.
But let the broom wave yellow, an' the burn blink in the heat,
It's an auld, auld story, but it's sweet, sweet, sweet.