Page:Burns' farewel to Ayrshire.pdf/7

 I see her in the dewy flowers,
 * Sae lovely, sweet, an' fair;

I hear her voice in ilka bird,
 * Wi' music charm the air;

There's not a bonny flower that springs
 * By fountain, shaw or green,

Nor yet a bonny bird that sings,
 * But mind me o' my Jean.

Upon the banks of flowing Clyde,
 * The lasses busk them braw;

But when their best they have put on,
 * My Jenny dings them a':

In hame y weeds she far exceeds
 * The fairest of the town;

Baith sage an' gay confess it sae,
 * Tho' dress'd in rustic gown.

The gamesome lamb that sucks its dam,
 * Mair harmless canna be;

She has nae fau't, if sic we ca't,
 * Except her love for me:

The sparklin' dew of clearest hew,
 * Is ilka her shining een.

In shape an air nane can compare,
 * Wi' my sweet lovely Jean.

O blaw ye westlin' win's, blaw fast,
 * Amang the leafy trees.

Wi' gentle breath, frae muir an' dale,
 * Bring hame the laden bees;