2 To tell the truth, they seldom fash'd him,
Except the moment that they crush'd him ;
For soon as chance or fate had hush'd 'em,
Though e'er sae short,

Then wi' a rhyme or sang he lash'd 'em,
And thought it sport.

3 Though he was born to kintra wark,
And counted was baith wight and stark,
Yet that was never Robin's mark
To mak a man;

But tell him he was learn'd and clark,
Ye roosed him then!

EPISTLE TO HUGH PARKER.1
In this strange land, this uncouth clime,
A land unknown to prose or rhyme ;
Where words ne'er cross'd the Muse's heckles,
Nor limpet in poetic shackles ;

A land that Prose did never view it,

Except when drunk he stacher't through it;
Here, ambush'd by the chimla cheek,

Hid in an atmosphere of reek,

I hear a wheel thrum i' the neuk,
I hear it-for in vain I leuk.
The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel,
Enhusked by a fog infernal:
Here, for my wonted rhyming raptures,
I sit and count my sins by chapters;
For life and spunk like ither Christians,

I'm dwindled down to mere existence

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1 This epistle, written at Ellisland, and dated June 1788, is addressed to Mr Hugh Parker, merchant, Kilmarnock, one of Burns' earliest friends and patrons.

Wi' nae converse but Gallowa' bodies,
Wi' nae kent face but Jenny Geddes.
Jenny, my Pegasean pride!

Dowie she saunters down Nithside,

And aye a westlin' leuk she throws,
While tears hap o'er her auld brown nose!
Was it for this, wi' canny care,

Thou bure the Bard through mony a shire?
At howes or hillocks never stumbled,
And late or early never grumbled?
Oh, had I power like inclination,
I'd heeze thee up a constellation,
To canter with the Sagitarre,
Or loup the ecliptic like a bar;
Or turn the pole like any arrow;
Or, when auld Phoebus bids good-morrow,
Down the zodiac urge the race,

And cast dirt on his godship's face;
For I could lay my bread and kail
He'd ne'er cast saut upo' thy tail.
Wi' a' this care and a' this grief,
And sma', sma' prospect of relief,
And naught but peat-reek i' my head,
How can I write what ye can read?
Tarbolton, twenty-fourth o' June,
Ye'll find me in a better tune;

But till we meet and weet our whistle,
Tak this excuse for nae epistle.

ROBERT BURNS.

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40

THE GUIDWIFE OF WAUCHOPE HOUSE,1

TO ROBERT BURNS.

My canty, witty, rhyming ploughman,
I bafflins doubt it is na true, man,

February 1787.

That 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
Ware better fed, I'd gie my aith,

Than theirs, wha sup sour-milk and parritch,
And bummil through the Single Carritch.
Wha ever 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.

And then sae slee ye crack your jokes

On Willie Pitt and Charlie Fox:
Our great men a' sae weel descrive,

And how to gar the nation thrive,

Ane maist wad swear ye dwalt amang them,
And as ye saw them, sae ye sang them.
But be ye ploughman, be ye peer,

Ye are a funny blade, I swear:

And though the cauld I ill can bide,

Yet twenty miles, and mair, I'd ride,
O'er moss, and muir, and never grumble,
Though my auld yad should gie a stumble,
To crack a winter night wi' thee,

And hear thy sangs and sonnets slee.

''The guidewife of Wauchope house' was the late talented Mrs Scott of Wauchope.

A guid saut herring and a cake,

Wi' sic a chiel, a feast wad make;
I'd rather scour your reaming yill,
Or eat o' cheese and bread my fill,
Than wi' dull lairds on turtle dine,
And ferlie at their wit and wine.

Oh, gif I kenn'd but where ye baide,
I'd send to you a marlèd plaid;

'Twad haud your shouthers warm and braw,
And 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.

Your most obedient, E. S.

TO THE GUIDWIFE O' WAUCHOPE HOUSE.

GUIDWIFE,

1 I MIND it weel, in early date,

When I was beardless, young, and blate,

And first could thresh the barn,

Or haud a yokin' at the pleugh,

And though 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 and haivers,
Wearing the day awa'.

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40

2 Even then a wish-I mind its powerA 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,
And spared the symbol dear:
No nation, no station,

My envy e'er could raise ;
A Scot still, but blot still,

I knew nae higher praise.

3 But still the elements o' sang
In formless jumble, right and wrang,
Wild floated in my brain :

Till on that hairst I said before
My partner in the merry core,

She roused the forming strain;
I see her yet, the sonsie quean,
That lighted up my jingle,
Her witching smile, her pauky e'en,
That gart my heart-strings tingle;
I fired, inspired,

At every kindling keek,
But bashing, and dashing,
I feared aye to speak.

4 Health to the sex! ilk guid chiel says,
Wi' merry dance in winter days,
And we to share in common:

The gust of joy, the balm of woe,