Poem by Robert Burns

Answer to Verses Addressed to the Poet by the Guidwipe of Wauchope-House

  GUIDWIFE,

I mind it weel, in early date,
When I was beardless, young and blat
  An’ first could thresh the barn,
Or hand 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,
And wi’ the lave ilk merry morn
  Could rank my rig and lass,
    Still shearing, and clearing
      The tither stooked raw,
    Wi’ claivers, an’ haivers,
      Wearing the day awa,-

Ev’n then a wish!  (I mind its power)
A wish that to my latest hour
  Shall strongly heave my breast;
That I for poor auld Scotland’s sake,
Some usefu’ plan or beuk could make,
  Or sing a sang at least.
The rough bur-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 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 fired, inspired,
      At ev’ry kindling keek,
    But bashing, and dashing,
      I feared aye to speak.

Health 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 sumpbs, 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, no bred to barn or 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,
  Douce hingin’ owre 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’.

1. I Gaed a Waefu' Gate Yestreen
2. Blythe Was She
3. Farewell to Ballochmyle
4. Farewell, Thou Stream
5. Stay My Charmer

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