Whiles daez't wi' love, whiles daez't wi' drink,
Wi' jads or masons;
An' whyles, but ay owre late, I think
Braw sober lessons.
Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, Commen' me to the Bardie clan ;
Except it be some idle plan
O' rhymin clink,
The devil-hact, that I sud ban,
They ever think.
Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin,
Nae cares tae gie us joy or grievin :
But just the pouchic put the nieve in,
An' while ought's there,
Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin,
An' fash nae mair.
Leeze me on thyme! it's aye a treasure,
My chief, amaist my only pleasure,
At hame, a-fiel', at wark or leisure,
The Muse, poor hizzie!
Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure,
She's seldom lazy.
Haud the the Muse, my dainty Davie : The warl' may play you monie a shavie; But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye, Tho' e'er sae poor,
Na, even tho' limpin wi' the spavie
Frac door tae door.
GUIDWIFE OF WAUCHOPE-HOUSE,
My canty, witty, rhyming ploughman,
I hafflins doubt, it is na true man,
ye between the stilts were bred,
Wi' ploughmen school'd, wi' ploughmen fed.
I doubt it sair, ye've drawn your knowledge
Either frae grammar-school, or college.
Guid troth, your saul and body baith
War' better fed, I'd gie my aith,
Than theirs, who sup sour-milk and parritch,
An' bummil thro' the single caritch.
Whaever heard the ploughman speak,
Could tell gif Homer was a Greek ?
He'd flee as soon upon a cudgel,
As get a single line of Virgil.
An' then sae slee ye crack your jokes
O' Willie P-t and Charlie F-x.
Our great men a' sae weel descrive,
An' how to gar the nation thrive,
Ane maist wad swear ye dwalt amang them
An' as ye saw them, sae ye sang them.
But be ye ploughman, be ye peer,
Ye are a funny blade, I swear;
An' though the cauld I ill can bide,
Yet twenty miles, an' mair, I'd ride,
O'er moss, an' muir, an' never grumble,
Tho' my auld yad shou'd gae a stumble,
To crack a winter-night wi' thee,
An' hear thy sangs an' sonnets slee.
A guid saut herring, an' a cake
Wi' sic a chiel a feast wad make.
I'd rather scour your rumming yill,
Or eat o' cheese and bread my fill,
Than wi' dull lairds on turtle dine,
An' ferlie at their wit and wine.
O, gif I kend but whare ye baide,
I'd send to you a marled plaid;
'Twad haud your shoulders warm and braw,
An' douse at kirk, or market shaw.
For south, as weel as north, my lad,
A' honest Scotsmen lo'e the maud.
Right wae that we're sae far frae ither;
Yet proud I am to ca' ye brither.
I MIND it weel in early date,
When I was beardless, young and blate,
An' first could thresh the barn ;-
Or haud a yokia at the pieugh;
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 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.
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.
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,
My partner in the merry core,
She rous'd the forming strain:
I see her yet, the sonsie quean,
That lighted up her jingle,
Her witching smile, her pauky e'en
That gart my heart-strings tingle;
I fired, inspired,
At ev'ry kindling keek,
But bashing, and dashing,
I feared ay to speak.
Hale to the set, 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.
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