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,

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.