again.

SONG.

HER flowing locks, the raven's wing, Adown her neck and bosom hing; How sweet unto that breast to cling, And round that neck entwine her!

*C. Fox. † Lord Erskine.

SONG.

THE winter it is past, and the simmer comes at

last,

And the small birds sing on every tree; Now every thing is glad, while I am very sad, Since my true love is parted from me.

The rose upon the brier by the waters running

clear,

May have charms for the linnet or the bee; Their little loves are blest, and their little hearts

at rest,

But my true love is parted from me.

THE

GUIDWIFE OF WAUCHOPE-HOUSE

TO

ROBERT BURNS.

February, 1787.

My canty, witty, rhyming ploughman,

1 hafflins doubt, it is na true man,
That ye between the stilts were bred,
Wi' ploughmen school'd, wi' ploughmen fed.
I doubt it sair, ye've drawn your knowledgo
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,
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.

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 gie a stumble,
To crack a winter-night wi' thee,
And hear thy sangs and sonnets slee.
A guid saut herring, an' 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,
An' ferlie at their wit and wine.
O, gif I kenn'd 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 Scotchmen lo'e the maud,
Right wae that we're sae far frae ither:
Yet proud I am to ca' ye brither.

That I for poor auld Scotland's sake, Some usefu' plan, or book could make, Or sing a sang at least.

The rough bur-thistle, spreading wide
Among the bearded bear,

I turn'd my weeding-heuk 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 c'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, each guid chiel says,
Wi' merry dance in winter-days,
An' we to share in common:
The gust o' joy, the balm of wo,
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 shar
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.