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GUDEWIFE,
I MIND it weel in early date, | |
| When I was bardless, young, and blate, | |
| An’ first could thresh the barn, | |
| Or haud a yokin’ at the pleugh; | |
| An, tho’ forfoughten sair eneugh, | 5 |
| 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, | 10 |
| Still shearing, and clearing | |
| The tither stooked raw, | |
| Wi’ claivers, an’ haivers, | |
| Wearing the day awa. | |
| |
| E’en then, a wish, (I mind its pow’r), | 15 |
| 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. | 20 |
| The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide | |
| Amang the bearded bear, | |
| I turn’d the weeder-clips aside, | |
| An’ spar’d the symbol dear: | |
| No nation, no station, | 25 |
| My envy e’er could raise; | |
| A Scot still, but blot still, | |
| I knew nae higher praise. | |
| |
| But still the elements o’ sang, | |
| In formless jumble, right an’ wrang, | 30 |
| Wild floated in my brain; | |
| ’Till on that har’st I said before, | |
| May partner in the merry core, | |
| She rous’d the forming strain; | |
| I see her yet, the sonsie quean, | 35 |
| That lighted up my jingle, | |
| Her witching smile, her pawky een | |
| That gart my heart-strings tingle; | |
| I firèd, inspired, | |
| At every kindling keek, | 40 |
| But bashing, and dashing, | |
| I fearèd aye to speak. | |
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| Health to the sex! ilk guid chiel says: | |
| Wi’ merry dance in winter days, | |
| An’ we to share in common; | 45 |
| The gust o’ joy, the balm of woe, | |
| The saul o’ life, the heaven below, | |
| Is rapture-giving woman. | |
| Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name, | |
| Be mindfu’ o’ your mither; | 50 |
| 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, | 55 |
| Ilk honest birkie swears. | |
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| For you, no bred to barn and byre, | |
| Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre, | |
| Thanks to you for your line: | |
| The marled plaid ye kindly spare, | 60 |
| 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 ony ermine ever lap, | 65 |
| 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 | 70 |
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