Answer to Verses addressed to the Poet by the Guidwife of Wauchope House

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 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 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 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, no bred to barn or byre,

Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre,

Thanks to you for your line:

The marbled plaid ye kindly spare,

By me should gratefully be ware;

'Twad please me to the nine.

I'd be more vauntie o' my hap,

Douce hingin' owre my curple,

Than ony ermine ever lap,

Or proud imperial purple.

Fareweel then, lang heal then,

An' plenty be your fa':

May losses and crosses

Ne'er at your hallan ca'.

March, 1787.