It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face,

Nor shape that I admire,

Although thy beauty and thy grace

Might weel awake desire.

Something, in ilka part o’ thee,

To praise, to love, I find;

But dear as is thy form to me,

Still dearer is thy mind.

Nae mair ungenerous wish I hae,

Nor stronger in my breast,

Than if I canna mak thee sae,

At least to see thee blest.

Content am I, if Heaven shall give

But happiness to thee:

And as wi’ thee I’d wish to live,

For thee I’d bear to die.