Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, 
Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume, 
Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan,
Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom; 
Far dearer to me yon humble broom bowers,
Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen, 
For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, 
A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.

Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys, 
And cauld, Caledonia's blast on the wave;
Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace,
What are they? The haunt o' the tyrant and slave! 
The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains,
The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain: 
He wanders as free as the wind o'er his mountains,
Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean.