O Jean, my Jean, when the bell ca's the congregation
Owre 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 Buik o’ the Word‘ afore ye
That was growin’ braw on its bush at the keek o’ day,
But the lad that pu'd yon flower 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 wa,
For nane but the reid rose kens what my lassie gie'd him —
It an’ us twa!
He canna sing for the sang that his ain he'rt 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!”