Читать книгу The Blue Poetry Book - Lang Andrew, May Kendall - Страница 29

Of a’ the airts the wind can blaw,

I dearly like the west,

For there the bonie lassie lives,

The lassie I lo’e best:

There wild woods grow, and rivers row

And monie a hill between;

But day and night my fancy’s flight

Is ever wi’ my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,

I see her sweet and fair;

I hear her in the tunefu’ birds,

I hear her charm the air:

There’s not a bonie flower that springs

By fountain, shaw, or green;

There’s not a bonie bird that sings,

But minds me o’ my Jean.