Guidwife,
I mind it weel in early date,
When I was beardless, young and blate,
An' first cou'd thresh the barn,
Or haud a yokin at the pleugh,
An' tho' fu' foughten sair eneugh,
Yet unco proud to learn.
When first amang the yellow corn
A man I reckon'd was;
An' with the lave ilk merry morn
Could rank my rig and lass;
Still shearing and clearing
The tither stooked raw;
With clavers and haivers
Wearing the time awa':
Ev'n then a wise (I mind its power)
Shall strongly heave my breast;
That I for poor auld Scotland's sake
Some useful plan, or book could make,
Or sing a sang at least.
The rough bur-thistle spreading wide
Amang the bearded bear,
I turn'd my weeding heuk 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 no higher praise.
But still the elements o' sang
In 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 sonsy quean,
That lighted up my jingle;
Her pauky smile, her kittle een,
That gar't my heart-strings tingle.
So tiched, bewitched,
I rav'd ay to mysel;
But bashing and dashing,
I kend na how to tell.
Hale to the sex, ilk guid chiel says,
Wi' merry dance in winter-days,
An' we to share in common:
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.
For you, na bred to barn and byre,
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre,
Thanks to you for your line.
The marled plaid ye kindly spare,
By me should gratefully be ware;
'Twad please me to the Nine.
I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap,
Douse hingin o'er my curple,
Than ony 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'.
March, 1787. R. Burns.
I mind it weel in early date,
When I was beardless, young and blate,
An' first cou'd thresh the barn,
Or haud a yokin at the pleugh,
An' tho' fu' foughten sair eneugh,
Yet unco proud to learn.
When first amang the yellow corn
A man I reckon'd was;
An' with the lave ilk merry morn
Could rank my rig and lass;
Still shearing and clearing
The tither stooked raw;
With clavers and haivers
Wearing the time awa':
Ev'n then a wise (I mind its power)
Shall strongly heave my breast;
That I for poor auld Scotland's sake
Some useful plan, or book could make,
Or sing a sang at least.
The rough bur-thistle spreading wide
Amang the bearded bear,
I turn'd my weeding heuk 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 no higher praise.
But still the elements o' sang
In 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 sonsy quean,
That lighted up my jingle;
Her pauky smile, her kittle een,
That gar't my heart-strings tingle.
So tiched, bewitched,
I rav'd ay to mysel;
But bashing and dashing,
I kend na how to tell.
Hale to the sex, ilk guid chiel says,
Wi' merry dance in winter-days,
An' we to share in common:
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.
For you, na bred to barn and byre,
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre,
Thanks to you for your line.
The marled plaid ye kindly spare,
By me should gratefully be ware;
'Twad please me to the Nine.
I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap,
Douse hingin o'er my curple,
Than ony 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'.
March, 1787. R. Burns.