Flow gently， sweet Afton， among 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 resounds¹ through the glen，

    Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny² den³，

    Thou green-crested lapwing， thy screaming forbear，

    I charge you disturb not my slumbering⁴ fair.

    How lofty， sweet Afton， thy neighboring hills，

    Far marked with the courses of clear winding⁵ rills；

    There daily I wander as noon 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 primroses⁶ blow；

    There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea，

    The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

    Thy crystal stream， Afton， how lovely it glides⁷，

    And winds by the cot where my Mary resides；

    How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave，

    As gathering⁸ sweet flowerets she stems thy clear wave.

    Flow gently， sweet Afton， among thy green braes，

    Flow gently， sweet river， the theme of my lays；

    My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream，

    Flow gently， sweet Afton， disturb not her dreams.