O Jean, my Jean, when the bell ca's the congregation
Ower valley an hill wi the ding frae its iron mou,
When a'body's thochts is set on his ain salvation,
Mine's set on you.

There's a reid rose lies on the Beuk o the Wird 'afore ye
That was growin braw on its bush at the keek o day,
But the lad that pou'd yon flouer i' the mornin's glory,
He canna pray.

He canna pray; but there's nane i' the kirk will heed him
Whaur he sits sae still his lane at the side o the waa,
For nane but the reid rose kens what my lassie gied him-
It an us twa!

He canna sing for the sang that his ain hert raises,
He canna see for the mist that's 'afore his een,
An a voice drouns the hale o the psalms an the paraphrases,
Cryin "Jean, Jean, Jean!"