Bonnie Lady Ann
by Allan Cunningham (1784-1842)

There’s kames o’ hinnie ’tween my luve’s lips,
⁠      And gowd amang her hair:
Her breists are lapt in a holy veil;
⁠      Nae mortal een keek there.
What lips daur kiss, or what hand daur touch,
⁠      Or what arm o’ luve daur span,
The hinnie lips, the creamy lufe,
⁠      Or the waist o’ Lady Ann?

She kisses the lips o’ her bonnie red rose,
⁠      Wat wi’ the blobs o’ dew;
But nae gentle lip, nor semple lip,
⁠      Maun touch her ladie mou’.
But a broider’d belt, wi’ a buckle o’ gowd,
⁠      Her jimpy waist maun span:
Oh, she’s an armfu’ fit for heeven—
⁠      My bonnie Lady Ann!

Her bower casement is latticed wi’ flowers.
⁠      Tied up wi’ siller thread;
And comely sits she in the midst,
⁠Men’s langing een to feed.
She waves the ringlets frae her cheek,
⁠      Wi’ her milky milky han’;
And her cheeks seem touch’d wi’ the finger o’ God,
⁠      My bonnie Lady Ann.

The mornin’ clud is tasselt wi’ gowd,
⁠      Like my luve’s broider’d cap;
And on the mantle that my luve wears,
⁠      Is mony a gowden drap.
Her bonnie ee-bree’s a holy arch,
⁠      Cast by nae earthly han’,
And the breath o’ heaven is atween the lips
⁠      O’ my bonnie Lady Ann.

I wonderin’ gaze on her stately steps,
⁠      And I beet a hopeless flame!
To my luve, alas! she maunna stoop;
⁠      It wad stain her honour’d name.
My een are bauld, they dwall on a place
⁠      Where I daurna mint my han’;
But I water, and tend, and kiss the flowers
⁠      O’ my bonnie Lady Ann.

I am but her father’s gardener lad,
⁠      And puir puir is my fa’,
My auld mither gets my wee wee fee,
⁠      Wi’ fatherless bairnies twa.
My lady comes, my lady gaes,
⁠      Wi’ a fou and kindly han’;
O, the blessin’ o’ God maun mix wi’ my love,
⁠      And fa’ on Lady Ann.

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