Bess And Her Spinning-Wheel.

Tune - "The sweet lass that lo'es me."


I.

    O leeze me on my spinning-wheel,
    O leeze me on the rock and reel;
    Frae tap to tae that cleeds me bien,
    And haps me fiel and warm at e'en!
    I'll set me down and sing and spin,
    While laigh descends the simmer sun,
    Blest wi' content, and milk and meal
    O leeze me on my spinning-wheel!

II.

    On ilka hand the burnies trot,
    And meet below my theekit cot;
    The scented birk and hawthorn white,
    Across the pool their arms unite,
    Alike to screen the birdie's nest,
    And little fishes' caller rest:
    The sun blinks kindly in the biel',
    Where blithe I turn my spinning-wheel.

III.

    On lofty aiks the cushats wail,
    And Echo cons the doolfu' tale;
    The lintwhites in the hazel braes,
    Delighted, rival ither's lays:
    The craik amang the clover hay,
    The paitrick whirrin o'er the ley,
    The swallow jinkin round my shiel,
    Amuse me at my spinning-wheel.

IV.

    Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy,
    Aboon distress, below envy,
    O wha wad leave this humble state,
    For a' the pride of a' the great?
    Amid their flaring, idle toys,
    Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys,
    Can they the peace and pleasure feel
    Of Bessy at her spinning-wheel?

Robert Burns

Robert Burns, also known as Rabbie Burns, the Bard of Ayrshire, and various other names and epithets, was a Scottish poet and lyricist. He is widely regarded as the national poet of Scotland and is celebrated worldwide. Born on January 25, 1759, in Alloway, he is best known for works such as 'Auld Lang Syne,' 'Scots Wha Hae,' and 'A Red, Red Rose.' He passed away on July 21, 1796, in Dumfries.

Robert Burns

Mark Yonder Pomp.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

The Five Carlins. A Scots Ballad.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Verses Written On A Window Of The Inn At Carron.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

The Cotter's Saturday Night. - Inscribed To Robert Aiken, Esq.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Country Lassie.

Tune - "The Country Lass."


I.

    In simmer, when the hay was mawn,
        And corn wav'd green in ilka field,
    While claver blooms white o'er the lea,
        And roses blaw in ilka bield;
    Blithe Bessie in the milking shiel,
        Says, I'll be wed, come o't what will;
    Out spak a dame in wrinkled eild
        O' guid advisement comes nae ill.

II.

    It's ye hae wooers mony ane,
        And, lassie, ye're but young ye ken;
    Then wait a wee, and cannie wale,
        A routhie butt, a routhie ben:
    There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen,
        Fu' is his burn, fu' is his byre;
    Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen,
        It's plenty beets the luver's fire.

III.

    For Johnie ...

Robert Burns

Epistle To Major Logan.

    Hail, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie!
    Though fortune's road be rough an' hilly
    To every fiddling, rhyming billie,
        We never heed,
    But tak' it like the unback'd filly,
        Proud o' her speed.

    When idly goavan whyles we saunter
    Yirr, fancy barks, awa' we canter
    Uphill, down brae, till some mishanter,
        Some black bog-hole,
    Arrests us, then the scathe an' banter
        We're forced to thole.

    Hale be your heart! Hale be your fiddle!
    Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,
    To cheer you through the weary widdle
        O' this wild warl',
    Until you on a crummock driddle
        A gray-hair'd carl.

    Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon,
    Heaven send your hear...

Robert Burns

My Heart Was Ance.

Tune - "To the weavers gin ye go."


I.

    My heart was ance as blythe and free
        As simmer days were lang,
    But a bonnie, westlin weaver lad
        Has gart me change my sang.
            To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids,
                To the weavers gin ye go;
            I rede you right gang ne'er at night,
                To the weavers gin ye go.

II.

    My mither sent me to the town,
        To warp a plaiden wab;
    But the weary, weary warpin o't
        Has gart me sigh and sab.

III.

    A bonnie westlin weaver lad,
        Sat working at his loom;
    He took my heart as wi' a net,
        In every knot and thrum.

IV.

    I sat beside my warpin-whee...

Robert Burns

To Mrs. Scott, Of Wauchope.

    I mind it weel in early date,
    When I was beardless, young and blate,
        An' first could thresh the barn;
    Or hand a yokin at the pleugh;
    An' tho' forfoughten sair enough,
        Yet unco proud to learn:
    When first amang the yellow corn
        A man I reckon'd was,
    An' wi' the lave ilk merry morn
        Could rank my rig and lass,
            Still shearing, and clearing,
                The tither stooked raw,
            Wi' claivers, an' haivers,
                Wearing the day awa.

    E'en then, a wish, I mind its pow'r,
    A wish that to my latest hour
        Shall strongly heave my breast,
    That I for poor auld Scotland's sake
    Some usefu' plan or beuk could make,
        Or sing a sang at least...

Robert Burns

There Was A Lass.

Tune - "Duncan Davison."


I.

    There was a lass, they ca'd her Meg,
        And she held o'er the moors to spin;
    There was a lad that follow'd her,
        They ca'd him Duncan Davison.
    The moor was driegh, and Meg was skiegh,
        Her favour Duncan could na win;
    For wi' the roke she wad him knock.
        And ay she shook the temper-pin.

II.

    As o'er the moor they lightly foor,
        A burn was clear, a glen was green,
    Upon the banks they eas'd-their shanks,
        And ay she set the wheel between:
    But Duncan swore a haly aith,
        That Meg should be a bride the morn,
    Then Meg took up her spinnin' graith,
        And flang them a' out o'er the burn.

III.

Robert Burns

Blythe Hae I Been.

Tune - "Liggeram Cosh."



I.

    Blythe hae I been on yon hill
        As the lambs before me;
    Careless ilka thought and free
        As the breeze flew o'er me.
    Now nae langer sport and play,
        Mirth or sang can please me;
    Lesley is sae fair and coy,
        Care and anguish seize me.

II.

    Heavy, heavy is the task,
        Hopeless love declaring:
    Trembling, I dow nocht but glow'r,
        Sighing, dumb, despairing!
    If she winna ease the thraws
        In my bosom swelling,
    Underneath the grass-green sod
        Soon maun be my dwelling.

Robert Burns