My Jean!

Tune - "The Northern Lass."


    Though cruel fate should bid us part,
        Far as the pole and line,
    Her dear idea round my heart,
        Should tenderly entwine.
    Though mountains rise, and deserts howl,
        And oceans roar between;
    Yet, dearer than my deathless soul,
        I still would love my Jean

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

Nithsdale's Welcome Hame.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Willie Chalmers.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

The Cardin' O'T.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

The Farewell.

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.

Of A' The Airts The Wind Can Blaw

Tune - "Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey."


I.

    Of a' the airts the wind can blaw,
        I dearly like the west,
    For there the bonnie lassie lives,
        The lassie I lo'e best:
    There wild-woods grow, and rivers row,
        And mony a hill between;
    But day and night my fancy's flight
        Is ever wi' my Jean.

II.

    I see her in the dewy flowers,
        I see her sweet and fair:
    I hear her in the tunefu' birds,
        I hear her charm the air:
    There's not a bonnie flower that springs
        By fountain, shaw, or green,
    There's not a bonnie bird that sings,
        But minds me o' my Jean.

III.

    O blaw, ye westlin winds, blaw saft
        Among the...

Robert Burns

Fair Jeany.

Tune - "Saw ye my father?"



I.

    Where are the joys I have met in the morning,
        That danc'd to the lark's early song?
    Where is the peace that awaited my wand'ring,
        At evening the wild woods among?

II.

    No more a-winding the course of yon river,
        And marking sweet flow'rets so fair:
    No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure,
        But sorrow and sad sighing care.

III.

    Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys,
        And grim, surly winter is near?
    No, no, the bees' humming round the gay roses,
        Proclaim it the pride of the year.

IV.

    Fain would I hide, what I fear to discover,
        Yet long, long too well have I known,

Robert Burns

It Is Na, Jean, Thy Bonnie Face.

Tune - "The Maid's Complaint."


I.

    It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face,
        Nor shape that I admire,
    Altho' thy beauty and thy grace
        Might weel awake 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.

II.

    Nae mair ungen'rous wish I hae,
        Nor stronger in my breast,
    Than, if I canna mak 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.

Robert Burns

Bonnie Jean.

I.

    There was a lass, and she was fair,
        At kirk and market to be seen,
    When a' the fairest maids were met,
        The fairest maid was bonnie Jean.

II.

    And aye she wrought her mammie's wark,
        And ay she sang so merrilie:
    The blithest bird upon the bush
        Had ne'er a lighter heart than she.

III.

    But hawks will rob the tender joys
        That bless the little lintwhite's nest;
    And frost will blight the fairest flowers,
        And love will break the soundest rest.

IV.

    Young Robie was the brawest lad,
        The flower and pride of a' the glen;
    And he had owsen, sheep, and kye,
        And wanton naigies nine or ten.

V.

    He gae...

Robert Burns

On Miss Jean Scott.

    Oh! had each Scot of ancient times,
        Been Jeany Scott, as thou art,
    The bravest heart on English ground
        Had yielded like a coward!

Robert Burns

Thail Burn.

    The river is a ribbon wide,
    The falls a snowy feather,
    And stretching far on ilka side
    Are hills abloom wi' heather.
    The wind comes loitering frae the west
    By weight o' sweets retarded;
    The sea-mist hangs on Arran's crest,
    A Golden Fleece unguarded.

    We ken ye weel, ye fond young pair,
    That hand in hand do tarry;
    The youth is Burns, the Bard o' Ayr,
    The lass is Highland Mary.
    He tells her they will never pairt -
    'Tis life and luve taegither -
    The world has got the song by hairt
    He sang among the heather.

    'Twas lang ago, lang, lang ago,
    Yet all remember dearly
    The eyes, the hair, the brow o' snow
    O' her he luved sae dearly.
    And lads still woo their...

Jean Blewett