epistle to mrs. scott
gudewife of wauchope—house, rhshire.
gudewife,
i mind it weel in early date,
when i was bardless, young, and bte,
an' first could thresh the barn,
or haud a yokin' at the pleugh;
an, tho' fhten sair eneugh,
yet unco proud to learn:
when first amang the yellow
a man i re'd was,
an' wi' the ve ilk merry morn
could rank my rig and ss,
still shearing, and clearing
the tither stooked raw,
wi' civers, an' haivers,
wearing the day awa.
e'en then, a wish, (i mind its pow'r),
a wish that to my test hour
shall strongly heave my breast,
that i for poor auld sd's sake
some usefu' pn or book could make,
or sing a sang at least.
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,
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,
wild floated in my brain;
'till on that har'st i said before,
may partner in the merry core,
she rous'd the f strain;
i see her yet, the sonsie quean,
that lighted up my jingle,
her witg smile, her pawky een
that gart my heart-strings tingle;
i fired, inspired,
at every kindling keek,
but bashing, and dashing,
i feared aye to speak.
health to the sex! ilk guid chiel says:
wi' merry dan winter days,
an' we to share in on;
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;
she, ho woman, may think shame
that ye're ected with her:
ye're wae men, ye're nae men
that slight the lovely dears;
to shame ye, discim ye,
ilk ho birkie swears.
for you, no bred to barn and byre,
wha sweetly tuhe scottish lyre,
thanks to you for your line:
the marled pid ye kindly spare,
by me should gratefully be ware;
'tlease me to the nine.
i'd be mair vauntie o' my hap,
douce hingin owre my curple,
than ony ermine ever p,
or proud imperial purple.
farewell then, ng hale then,
an' plenty be your fa;
may losses and crosses
ne'er at your haln ca'!
r. burns
march, 1787