that lighted up my jingle,
her witching smile, her pawky een
that gart my heart-strings tingle;
i fired, inspired,
at every 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 inmon;
the gust o' joy, the balm of woe,
the saul o' 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 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 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 vauntie o' my hap,
douce hingin owre my curple,
than ony ermine ever lap,
or proud imperial purple.
farewell then, lang hale then,
an' plenty be your fa;
may losses and crosses
ne'er at your hallan ca'!
r. burns
march, 1787