The wild Rose is a bonnie flow'r,
When wat wi' mornin' dew;
It ca's to mind the fair I prize,
But, ah! she prov'd untrue!
Her look a captive made my heart;
She bound me wi' luive's chain:
Yet I may taste o' liberty,
Ere Roses bloom again.

I'll pou the wild Rose, Flora's pride,
And tear ilk thorn away;
Then gie it to the lass I lo'e,
She'll see it suin decay:
At sic a sight she may relent,
And ease me o' luive's pain;
If sae, I'll thank ye, Roses wild,
When first ye bloom again!