The Poetry of Robert Burns Edited by William Ernest Henley and Thomas F. Henderson |
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TO THE GUIDWIFE OF WAUCHOPE HOUSE
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 | The Poetry of Robert Burns |  |
104
TO THE GUIDWIFE OF WAUCHOPE HOUSE
(MRS. SCOTT)
Guid Wife,
I
I mind it weel, in early date,When I was beardless, young, and blate,
An' first could thresh the barn,
Or haud a yokin at the pleugh,
An', tho' forfoughten sair eneugh,
Yet unco proud to learn;
When first amang the yellow corn
A man I reckon'd was,
An' wi' the lave ilk merry morn
Could rank my rig and lass:
Still shearing, and clearing
The tither stookèd raw,
Wi' clavers an' havers
Wearing the day awa.
II
E'en then, a wish (I mind its pow'r),A wish that to my latest hour
Shall strongly heave my breast,
That I for poor auld Scotland's sake
Some usefu' plan or book could make,
Or sing a sang at least.
105
Amang the bearded bear,
I turn'd the weeder-clips aside,
An' spar'd the symbol dear.
No nation, no station
My envy e'er could raise;
A Scot still, but blot still,
I knew nae higher praise.
III
But still the elements o' sangIn formless jumble, right an' wrang,
Wild floated in my brain;
Till on that hairst I said before,
My partner in the merry core,
She rous'd the forming strain.
I see her yet, the sonsie quean
That lighted up my jingle,
Her witching smile, her pauky een
That gart my heart-strings tingle!
I firèd, inspirèd,
At ev'ry kindling keek,
But, bashing and dashing,
I fearèd ay to speak.
IV
Hale to the sex! (ilk guid chiel says):Wi' merry dance on winter days,
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The gust o' joy, the balm of woe,
The saul o' life, the heav'n below
Is rapture-giving Woman.
Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name,
Be mindfu' o' your mither:
She, honest woman, may think shame
That ye're connected with her!
Ye're wae men, ye're nae men
That slight the lovely dears;
To shame ye, disclaim ye,
Ilk honest birkie swears.
V
For you, no bred to barn and byre,Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre,
Thanks to you for your line!
The marl'd plaid ye kindly spare,
By me should gratefully be ware;
'Twad please me to the nine.
I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap,
Douce hingin owre my curple,
Than onie ermine ever lap,
Or proud imperial purple.
Farewell, then! lang hale, then,
An' plenty be your fa'!
May losses and crosses
Ne'er at your hallan ca'!
R. Burns.
March, 1787
| The Poetry of Robert Burns | |