The poem
IT is na, Jean, thy bonie face, Nor shape that I admire; Altho’ thy beauty and thy grace Might weel awauk desire.
Something, in ilka part o’ thee, To praise, to love, I find, But dear as is thy form to me, Still dearer is thy mind.
Nae mair ungenerous wish I hae, Nor stronger in my breast, Than, if I canna make thee sae, At least to see thee blest.
Content am I, if heaven shall give But happiness, to thee; And as wi’ thee I’d wish to live, For thee I’d bear to die.