Robert Burns (1759–1796)

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,

Wi’ mony a hill between;

Baith day and night my fancy’s flight

Is ever wi’ my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers

Sae lovely fresh and fair,

I hear her voice in ilka bird

Wi’ music 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.