  Of a’ the airts the wind can blaw, I dearly like the west, For there the bonie lassie lives, The lassie I lo’e best: There wild woods grow, and rivers row And monie 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 bonie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green; There’s not a bonie bird that sings, But minds me o’ my Jean. R. Burns. |
|
