Of a the airts the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west,
For there the bonny lassie lives,
The lassie I loe best;
There wild-woods grow, and rivers row,
And mony a hill between;
But day and night my fancy's flight,
Is ever wi' my Jean.
I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair,
I hear her in the tunefu’ birds,
I hear her charm the air:
There’s not a bonnie flower that springs,
By fountain, shaw or green.
There’s not a bonnie bird that sings,
But minds me o' my Jean.
Upon the banks of flowing Clyde,
The lasses busk them braw;
But when their best they hae put on,
My Jeanie dings them a';
In hamely weeds she far exceeds,
The fairest of the town;
Baith grave and gay confess it sae,
Tho' dress'd in russet gown.
The gamesome lamb that sucks the (illegible text),
Mair harmless canna be;
She has nae faut (if sic we ca't)
Except her love to me:
The sparkling dew, of clearest hue,
Is like her shining een;
In shape an’ air wha can compare,
Wi' my sweet lovely Jean.
O blaw ye westlin win's, blaw saft,
Amang the leafy trees,
Wi' gentle breath, frae muir an' dale,
Bring hame the laden bees,
An' bring the lassie back to me,
That’s ay sae neat and clean;
Ae blink o' her wad banish care,,
Sae charming is my Jean.
What sighs and vows amang the knowes,
Hae past atween us twa;
How fain to meet and wae to part,
That day she gade awa.
The pow’rs aboon can only ken,
To whom the heart is seen,
That nane can be sae dear to me,
As my sweet lovely Jean.
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