MY canty, witty, rhyming plughman,
I haftin’s dout, it is na’ true, man,
That ye between the stilts was bred,
Wi’ plughman school’d wi’ plughman fed.
I doubt it sair, ye’ve drawn your knowledge
Either frae grammar, school, or colledge.
Guid troth, your saul and body baith
War’ better fed, I’d gie my aith,
Than theirs, who sup sour milk and paridge,
An’ bummil thro’ the single caritch.
Whaever heard the plughman speak,
Could tell gif Homer was a Greek?
He’d flee as soon upon a cudgel,
As git a single line of Virgil.
An’ then sai slie ye crack your jokes
O’ Willie P– and Charlie —-.
Our grit men a’ sai weel descrive,
An’ how to gar the nation thrive,
Yen maist wad swear ye dwalt amang them,
An’ as ye saw them, sai ye sang them.
But be ye plughman, be ye peer,
Ye are a funny blade, I swear.
An’ tho’ the cauld I ill do bide,
Yet twenty miles, an’ mair, I’d ride,
O’er moss, an’ muir, an’ never grumble,
Tho’ my auld yad shou’d gai a stumble,
To crack a winter-night wi’ thee,
An’ hear thy sangs, an’ sonnets slie.
A guid saut herring, an’ a cake
Wi’ sic a cheel a feast wad make.
I’d rather scour your rumming yill,
Or eat o’ cheese an’ bread my fill,
Than wi’ dull lairds on turtle dine,
An’ farlie at their wit and wine.
O, gif I kenn’d but whar ye baide,
I’d send to you a marled plaid.
‘Twod haud your shoulders warm and braw,
An’ douse at kirk, or market shaw.
Far south, as weel as north, my lad,
A’ honest Scotsmen loe the maud.
Right wae that we’re sai far frae ither;
Yet proud I am to ca’ ye brither.
Your most obed. E. S.
The Answer
GUIDWIFE,
I MIND it weel in early date,
When I was beardless, young and blate,
An’ first cou’d thresh the barn,
Or haud a yokin at the plugh,
An’ tho’ fu’ foughten sair eneugh,
Yet unko proud to learn.
When first among the yellow corn
A man I reckon’d was;
An’ with the lave ilk merry morn
Could rank my rig and las;
Still shearing and clearing
The tither stooked raw;
With clavers and halvers
Wearing the time awa’:
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 useful 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 no higher praise.
But still the elements o’ sang
In formless jumble, right an’ wrang,
Wild floated in my brain;
Till on that harste I said before,
My partner in the merry core,
She rous’d the forming strain.
I see her yet, the sonsy queane,
That lighted up my jingle;
Her pauky smile, her kittle e’en,
That garr’d my heartstrings tingle,
So tiched, bewitched,
I rav’d ay to mysel;
But bashing and dashing,
I kenn’d na how to tell.
Heal’ to the set, ilk guid cheel 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.
I’d be mair vauntee o’ my hap,
Douse hingin o’er my curple,
Than ony ermine ever lap,
Or proud imperial purple.
Farewel then, lang heal’ then,
An’ plenty be your fa’:
May losses and crosses
Ne’er at your hallan ca’.
March 1787.R. BURNS.
(Elizabeth Scot)
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Based on Topics: Man Poems, Life Poems, Mind Poems, Time Poems, Joy & Excitement Poems, Youth Poems, Name Poems, Hope Poems, Smiling Poems, Woman Poems, Education PoemsBased on Keywords: dout, brither, hingin, beardless, loe, disclaim, weeding, heartstrings, whar, kittle, tither