I Am My Mammy's Ae Bairn.

Tune - "I'm o'er young to marry yet."


I.

    I am my mammy's ae bairn,
        Wi' unco folk I weary, Sir;
    And lying in a man's bed,
        I'm fley'd it make me eerie, Sir.
                I'm o'er young to marry yet;
                    I'm o'er young to marry yet;
                I'm o'er young, 'twad be a sin
                    To tak' me frae my mammy yet.

II.

    Hallowmas is come and gane,
        The nights are lang in winter, Sir;
    And you an' I in ae bed,
        In trouth, I dare na venture, Sir.

III.

    Fu' loud and shrill the frosty wind,
        Blaws through the leafless timmer, Sir;
    But, if ye come this gate again,
        I'll aulder be gin simmer, Sir.
                I'm o'er young to marry yet;
                    I'm o'er young to marry yet;
                I'm o'er young, 'twad be a sin
                    To tak me frae my mammy yet.

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

Verses - Written Under The Portrait Of Fergusson, The Poet, In A Copy Of That Author's Works Presented To A Young Lady.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

O Were I On Parnassus Hill.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Whare Hae Ye Been.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

On Chloris Being Ill.

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.

What Can A Young Lassie.

Tune - "What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man."


I.

    What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie,
        What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man?
    Bad luck on the pennie that tempted my minnie
        To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' lan'!
    Bad luck on the pennie that tempted my minnie
        To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' lan'!

II.

    He's always compleenin' frae mornin' to e'enin',
        He hosts and he hirples the weary day lang;
    He's doyl't and he's dozin', his bluid it is frozen,
        O, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man!
    He's doyl't and he's dozin', his bluid it is frozen,
        O, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man!

III.

    He hums and he ha...

Robert Burns

Lady Mary Ann.

Tune - "Craigtown's growing."


I.

    O, Lady Mary Ann
        Looks o'er the castle wa',
    She saw three bonnie boys
        Playing at the ba';
    The youngest he was
        The flower amang them a'
    My bonnie laddie's young,
        But he's growin' yet.

II.

    O father! O father!
        An' ye think it fit,
    We'll send him a year
        To the college yet:
    We'll sew a green ribbon
        Round about his hat,
    And that will let them ken
        He's to marry yet.

III.

    Lady Mary Ann
        Was a flower i' the dew,
    Sweet was its smell,
        And bonnie was its hue;
    And the langer it blossom'd
        The sweeter it grew;
    Fo...

Robert Burns

The Bairns Gat Out.

Tune - "The deuks dang o'er my daddie."


I.

    The bairns gat out wi' an unco shout,
        The deuks dang o'er my daddie, O!
    The fien'-ma-care, quo' the feirrie auld wife,
        He was but a paidlin body, O!
    He paidles out, an' he paidles in,
        An' he paidles late an' early, O!
    This seven lang years I hae lien by his side,
        An' he is but a fusionless carlie, O!

II.

    O, hand your tongue, my feirrie auld wife,
        O, haud your tongue, now Nansie, O!
    I've seen the day, and sae hae ye,
        Ye wadna been sae donsie, O!
    I've seen the day ye butter'd my brose,
        And cuddled me late and early, O!
    But downa do's come o'er me now,
        And, oh! I feel it sairly, O...

Robert Burns

Auld Rob Morris.

I.

    There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen,
    He's the king o' guid fellows and wale of auld men;
    He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine,
    And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine.

II.

    She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May;
    She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay;
    As blythe and as artless as the lamb on the lea,
    And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e.

III.

    But oh! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird,
    And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard;
    A wooer like me mamma hope to come speed;
    The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead.

IV.

    The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane;
    The night comes to me, but my...

Robert Burns

Nannie.

Tune - "My Nannie, O."


I.

    Behind yon hills, where Lugar flows,
        'Mang moors an' mosses many, O,
    The wintry sun the day has closed,
        And I'll awa to Nannie, O.

II.

    The westlin wind blaws loud an' shrill;
        The night's baith mirk and rainy, O;
    But I'll get my plaid, an' out I'll steal,
        An' owre the hills to Nannie, O.

III.

    My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' young;
        Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O:
    May ill befa' the flattering tongue
        That wad beguile my Nannie, O.

IV.

    Her face is fair, her heart is true,
        As spotless as she's bonnie, O:
    The op'ning gowan, wat wi' dew,
        Nae purer is than Nannie, O.

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