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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.<poem>
The Lass of Woodhouselee.
<poem>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.
