Flow gently, sweet Afton, amang thy green braes
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
    Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds from the hill
    Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny dell
Thou green created lapwing, thy screaming forbear
I charge you, disturb not my slumbering fair.

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills
Far marked with the courses of clear winding rills
There daily I wander, as morn rises high
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.
    How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below
    Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow
There oft, as mild evening creeps over the lea
The sweet scented birk shades my Mary and me.