The moon was sinking in the west
Wi’ visage pale and wan,
As my bonnie westlin weaver lad
Convoy’d me thro’ the glen.
VI.
But what was said, or what was done,
Shame fa’ me gin I tell;
But, oh! I fear the kintra soon
Will ken as weel’s mysel.
To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids,
To the weavers gin ye go;
I rede you right gang ne’er at night,
To the weavers gin ye go.
XIV.
NANNIE.
Tune—“My Nannie, O.”
[Agnes Fleming, servant at Calcothill, inspired this fine song: she died at an advanced age, and was more remarkable for the beauty of her form than face. When questioned about the love of Burns, she smiled and said, “Aye, atweel he made a great wark about me.”]
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.