Bonnie Jean mak's muckle

My Lorde Kilspindie's crappe is in,

Sae hail may skyte, an' rain may pour;

The norlan' blaste frae yonte the binne

May skelpe an' dadde fu' snelle an' dour:

I've noucht till doe but tende my flouir,

As lang as heaven sall health bestow mee;

My life's ane rosie sun-licht hour,

For bonnie Jean mak's muckle o' mee.

Thy bewtie is baith riche an' rare,—

Thy cheeke's the rose, thy teethe's the pearle,

Love sportes amang thy coal-blacke hair,

An' in thine eyne, my winesome girle!

Her voice is musick frae the merle,

Or mavis in the glen below me;—

I'm happier than Kilspindie's Karle,

When bonnie Jean mak's muckle o' mee.

Mess Jhone, our sanctimonious frier,

Screedes frae the altar ilka Lente,

That laicks a' were placed here

To practise pennaunce, an' repente;—

But frae sic doctrines I dissent,

An' spurn his cauldriffe dogmas fro' mee;

This warl's a' wi' flouris besprente,

For bonnie Jean mak's muckle o' mee.

I bous'd an' birl't at the yill,

At bikkeris aye I bure the gree;

The roarin' channel-stane stude still

Upo' the yee withoutten mee:

But now adieu to barley-bree,

Whilke frae my balance aft did throw mee,

For I've forfsworn it a', ye see,

Since bonnie Jean made muckle o' mee.