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Poem by Robert Burns


The Lass That Made The Bed To Me


WHEN Januar wind was blawing cauld,
  As to the north I took my way,
The mirksome night did me enfauld,
  I knew na where to lodge till day.

By my good luck a maid I met,
  Just in the middle o my care;
And kindly she did me invite
  To walk into a chamber fair.

I bowd fu low unto this maid,
  And thankd her for her courtesie;
I bowd fu low unto this maid,
  And bade her mak a bed to me.

She made the bed baith large and wide,
  Wi twa white hands she spread it down;
She put the cup to her rosy lips,
  And drank, Young man, now sleep ye soun.

She snatchd the candle in her hand,
  And frae my chamber went wi speed;
But I calld her quickly back again
  To lay some mair below my head.

A cod she laid below my head,
  And served me wi due respect;
And to salute her wi a kiss,
  I put my arms about her neck.

Haud aff your hands, young man, she says,
  And dinna sae uncivil be:
If ye hae ony love for me,
  O wrang na my virginitie!

Her hair was like the links o gowd,
  Her teeth were like the ivorie;
Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine,
  The lass that made the bed to me.

Her bosom was the driven snaw,
  Twa drifted heaps sae fair to see;
Her limbs the polishd marble stane,
  The lass that made the bed to me.

I kissd her owre and owre again,
  And aye she wist na what to say;
I laid her between me and the wa,-
  The lassie thought na lang till day.

Upon the morrow when we rose,
  I thankd her for her courtesie;
But aye she blushd, and aye she sighd
  And said Alas! yeve ruind me.

I claspd her waist, and kissd her syne,
  While the tear stood twinkling in her ee,
I said My lassie, dinna cry,
  For ye aye shall make the bed to me.

She took her mithers Holland sheets,
  And made them a in sarks to me:
Blythe and merry may she be,
  The lass that made the bed to me.

The bonnie lass made the bed to me,
  The braw lass made the bed to me:
Ill neer forget till the day I die,
  The lass that made the bed to me!



                      Robert Burns


Robert Burns's other poems:
  1. Theres News, Lasses
  2. Scroggam
  3. The Toast
  4. Where are the Joys
  5. My Wifes a Winsome Wee Thing


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