My Nannie's Awa.

Tune - "There'll never be peace."


I.

    Now in her green mantle blythe nature arrays,
    And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes,
    While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw;
    But to me it's delightless - my Nannie's awa!

II.

    The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands adorn,
    And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn;
    They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw,
    They mind me o' Nannie - and Nanny's awa!

III.

    Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of the lawn,
    The shepherd to warn o' the gray-breaking dawn,
    And thou mellow mavis that hails the night fa',
    Give over for pity - my Nannie's awa!

IV.

    Come autumn sae pensive, in yellow and gray,
    And soothe me with tidings o' nature's decay:
    The dark dreary winter, and wild driving snaw,
    Alane can delight me - now Nannie's awa!

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

A Grace Before Dinner.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Macpherson's Farewell.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

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

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

A Prayer - In The Prospect Of Death.

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.

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

Nannie Braw

I like ye weel upo Sundays, Nannie,
    I' yer goon and yer ribbons and a';
But I like ye better on Mondays, Nannie,
    Whan ye're no sae buskit and braw.

For whan we're sittin sae douce, Nannie,
    Wi' the lave o' the worshippin fowk,
That aneth the haly hoose, Nannie,
    Ye micht hear a moudiwarp howk,

It will come into my heid, Nannie,
    O' yer braws ye are thinkin a wee;
No alane o' the Bible-seed, Nannie,
    Nor the minister nor me!

Syne hame athort the green, Nannie,
    Ye gang wi' a toss o' yer chin;
And there walks a shadow atween 's, Nannie,
    A dark ane though it be thin!

But noo, whan I see ye gang, Nannie,
    Eident at what's to be dune,
Liltin a haiveless sang, Nannie,
    I wud kiss yer verr...

George MacDonald

Menie.

Tune. - "Johnny's grey breeks."


I.

    Again rejoicing nature sees
        Her robe assume its vernal hues,
    Her leafy locks wave in the breeze,
        All freshly steep'd in morning dews.
            And maun I still on Menie doat,
                And bear the scorn that's in her e'e?
            For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk,
                An' it winna let a body be.

II.

    In vain to me the cowslips blaw,
        In vain to me the vi'lets spring;
    In vain to me, in glen or shaw,
        The mavis and the lintwhite sing.

III.

    The merry plough-boy cheers his team,
        Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks;
    But life to me's a weary dream,
        A dream of ane t...

Robert Burns

Lament Of Mary, Queen Of Scots, On The Approach Of Spring.

I.

    Now Nature hangs her mantle green
        On every blooming tree,
    And spreads her sheets o' daisies white
        Out o'er the grassy lea:
    Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams,
        And glads the azure skies;
    But nought can glad the weary wight
        That fast in durance lies.

II.

    Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn,
        Aloft on dewy wing;
    The merle, in his noontide bow'r,
        Makes woodland echoes ring;
    The mavis wild wi' mony a note,
        Sings drowsy day to rest:
    In love and freedom they rejoice,
        Wi' care nor thrall opprest.

III.

    Now blooms the lily by the bank,
        The primrose down the brae;
    The hawthorn's budding in the glen,

Robert Burns

Ca' The Yowes.

I.

    Ca' the yowes to the knowes,
    Ca' them whare the heather growes,
    Ca' them whare the burnie rowes -
        My bonnie dearie!
    Hark the mavis' evening sang
    Sounding Cluden's woods amang!
    Then a faulding let us gang,
        My bonnie dearie.

II.

    We'll gae down by Cluden side,
    Thro' the hazels spreading wide,
    O'er the waves that sweetly glide
        To the moon sae clearly.

III.

    Yonder Cluden's silent towers,
    Where at moonshine midnight hours,
    O'er the dewy bending flowers,
        Fairies dance so cheery.

IV.

    Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear;
    Thou'rt to love and heaven sae dear,
    Nocht of ill may come thee near,
        My bo...

Robert Burns

Lassie Wi' The Lint-White Locks.

Tune - "Rothemurche's Rant."


I.

        Lassie wi' the lint-white locks,
            Bonnie lassie, artless lassie,
        Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks?
            Wilt thou be my dearie, O?
    Now nature cleeds the flowery lea,
    And a' is young and sweet like thee;
    O wilt thou share its joy wi' me,
        And say thoul't be my dearie, O?

II.

    And when the welcome simmer shower
    Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower,
    We'll to the breathing woodbine bower
        At sultry noon, my dearie, O.

III.

    When Cynthia lights wi' silver ray,
    The weary shearer's hameward way;
    Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray,
        And talk o' love my dearie, O.

IV.

Robert Burns