It's no that thou'rt bonnie

It's no that thou'rt bonnie, it's no that thou'rt braw,

It's no that thy skin has the whiteness o' snaw,

It's no that thy form is perfection itsel',

That mak's nay heart feel what my tongue canna tell;

But oh! it's the soul beaming out frae thine e'e,

That mak's thee sae dear and sae lovely to me.

It's pleasant to look on that mild blushing face,

Sae sweetly adorn'd wi' ilk feminine grace,

It's joyous to gaze on these tresses sae bright,

O'ershading a forehead sae smooth and sae white;

But to dwell on the glances that dart frae thine e'e,

O Jeanie! it's evendown rapture to me.

That form may be wasted by lingering decay,

The bloom of that cheek may be withtr'd away,

Those gay gowden ringlets that yield such delight,

By the cauld breath o' time may be changed into white;

But the soul's fervid flashes that brighten thine e'e,

Are the offspring o' heaven, and never can die.

Let me plough the rough ocean, nor e'er touch the shore,

Let me freeze on the coast of the bleak Labradore,

Let me pant 'neath the glare of a vertical sun,

Where no trees spread their branches, nor streams ever run;

Even there, my dear Jeanie, still happy I'd be,

If bless'd wi' the light o' thy heavenly e'e.