Gudewife,

I Mind it weelin early date,
When I was bardless, young, and blate,
An’ first could thresh the barn,
Or hauda yokin’ at the pleugh;
An, tho’ forfoughtensaireneugh,
Yet uncoproud to learn:
When first amang the yellow corn
A man I reckon’d was,
An’ wi’ the laveilk merry morn
Could rank my rigand lass,
Still shearing, and clearing
The titherstooked raw,
Wi’ claivers, an’ haivers,
Wearing the day awa.

E’enthen, a wish, (I mindits pow’r),
A wish that to my latest hour
Shall strongly heave my breast,
That I for poor auldScotland’s sake
Some usefu’ plan or book could make,
Or sing a sang at least.
The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide
Amangthe bearded bear,
I turn’d the weeder-clips aside,
An’ spar’d the symbol dear:
No nation, no station,
My envy e’ercould 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 forming strain;
I see her yet, the sonsiequean,
That lighted up my jingle,
Her witching smile, her pawky een
That gart my heart-strings tingle;
I fired, inspired,
At every kindling keek,
Butbashing, and dashing,
I feared aye to speak.

Health to the sex! ilk guidchielsays:
Wi’merry dance in winter days,
An’ we to share in common;
The gust o’ joy, the balm of woe,
The saulo’ life, the heaven 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 waemen, ye’re naemen
That slight the lovely dears;
To shame ye, disclaim ye,
Ilkhonest birkieswears.

For you, nobred to barn and byre,
Whasweetly tune the Scottish lyre,
Thanks to you for your line:
The marled plaid ye kindly spare,
Byme should gratefully be ware;
‘Twad please me to the nine.
I’d be mairvauntieo’my hap,
Doucehingin owremy curple,
Than ony ermine ever lap,
Orproud imperial purple.
Farewell then, langhalethen,
An’plenty be your fa;
May losses and crosses
Ne’er at your hallanca’!

R. Burns
March, 1787