Of a' the airts the wind can blaw,
...I dearly like the west,
For there the bonnie 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 bonnie flower that springs
...By fountain, shaw, or green;
There's not a bonnie bird that sings,
...But minds me o' my Jean.
.....Jean by Robert Burns (1759-96)
