It is na, Jean, thy bonie face,
Nor shape that I admire;
Altho’ thy beauty and thy grace
Might weel awauk 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 make 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.