Song—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 gude 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 bow'd fu' low unto this maid,
  And thank'd her for her courtesie;
I bow'd fu' low unto this maid,
  An' bade her make a bed to me;
She made the bed baith large and wide,
  Wi' twa white hands she spread it doun;
She put the cup to her rosy lips,
  And drank—"Young man, now sleep ye soun'."

Chorus.—the bonie lass made the bed to me,
  The braw lass made the bed to me,
I'll ne'er forget till the day I die,
  The lass that made the bed to me.

She snatch'd the candle in her hand,
  And frae my chamber went wi' speed;
But i call'd her quickly back again,
  To lay some mair below my head:
A cod she laid below my head,
  And servèd me with due respect,
And, to salute her wi' a kiss,
  I put my arms about her neck.
              The bonie lass, &c.

"Haud aff your hands, young man!" she said,
  "And dinna sae uncivil be;
Gif ye hae ony luve 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:
              The bonie lass, &c.

Her bosom was the driven snaw,
  Twa drifted heaps sae fair to see;
Her limbs the polish'd marble stane,
  The lass that made the bed to me.
I kiss'd her o'er and o'er again,
  And aye she wist na what to say:
I laid her 'tween me and the wa';
  The lassie thocht na lang till day.
              The bonie lass, &c.

Upon the morrow when we raise,
  I thank'd her for her courtesie;
But aye she blush'd and aye she sigh'd,
  And said, "Alas, ye've ruin'd me."
I claps'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne,
  While the tear stood twinkling in her e'e;
I said, my lassie, dinna cry.
  For ye aye shall make the bed to me.
              The bonie lass, &c.

She took her mither's holland sheets,
  An' made them a' in sarks to me;
Blythe and merry may she be,
  The lass that made the bed to me.

Chorus.—the bonie lass made the bed to me,
  The braw lass made the bed to me.
I'll ne'er forget till the day I die,
  The lass that made the bed to me.
Song—The lass that made the bed to me

by Robert Burns, 1795
