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But should riches e'er be mine, and my Jeanie still
 * be true,

Then blaw, ye fav'ring breeze, till my native land
 * I view;

Then I'll kneel on Scotia's shore, while the heartfelt
 * tear shall fa',

And I'll never leave my Jean, nor Caledonia.

How aft by Roslin's aged beild I've wander'd where the Esk distils, An'aft I've climb'd, wi' weary feet, The bleak bare face o' Pentland hills. But oh! on them nae mair I'll rove, Nor frae them viow the rowin sea: Nor will I e'er behold again The lass that liv'd near Woodhouselee. Oh! mony a rough, rough blast will blaw, An' mony a flower will grace the green, An' mony a bonny lassie yet In Caledonia will be seen; But rougher blasts will never blaw, Than brought death's tidings unto me; Nor ever flower spring up again Like her that liv'd near Woodhouselee.