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 7 Tho’ wild woods grow, and rivers row, Wi’moay a hill between, Baith day and night my fancy’s flight, Is ever wi’ my Jean

I see her in the dewy flower, Sae lovely fresh and fair ! I hear her voice in ilka bird, I hear her charm the air; There’s not a bonny flow’r that spring, By fountain shaw or green: Nor yet a bonny bird that sings, But minds me o’ my Jean.

Upon the banks of flowing Clyde, The lasses busk them braw, But when their bass they hae put on, Mv Jeanie dings them a’ To hamely weeds she far exceeds, The fairesr o’ the town; Baith grave and gay confess it sae, Tho’ drest in russet gown.

The gamesome lamb that sucks its dam, Mair harmless canna be ; She has nae faut, (if sic we ca’t.) Except her love for me. The saparkling dew, of Clearest hue, Is like her shining e’en ; In shape and air, wha can compare, Wi’ my sweet lovely Jean.