Our sex with guile and faithless love Is charged, perhaps, too true; This BONNIE DOON. song referred to an unhappy love-story of which young Peggy K. was the heroine. See vol. i. p. 203. Another copy, considerably altered, is after wards introduced. January, 1787. How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae fu' o' care! Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird, That sings upon the bough; Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird, For sae I sat, and sae I sang, And wistna o' my fate. knew not Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon, And sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose And my fause luver staw the rose, THE GUDEWIFE OF WAUCHOPE-HOUSE TO BURNS. During the first blaze of Burns's reputation in Edinburgh, several rhyming epistles were addressed to him publicly and privately - generally of no other value than to show how immensely he had stepped beyond all common bounds of success in cultivating the rustic Muse. One, however, from a Mrs. Scott of Wauchope, in Roxburghshire, was neatly and effectively written, and to it Burns made a suitable reply. Mr cantie, witty, rhyming ploughman, I hafflins doubt it is na true, man, alf plough-handles That ye Guid troth, your saul and body baith Than theirs who sup sour milk and parritch, Carritch. Whaever heard the ploughman speak, Could tell gif Homer was a Greek? bungle Catechism make Our great men a' sae weel descrive, And though the cauld I ill can bide, endure O'er moss and moor, and never grumble, And hear thy sangs and sonnets slee. sly resided checkered 'Twad haud your shouthers warm and braw, And douce at kirk or market shaw; respectable Fra' south as weel as north, my lad, A' honest Scotsmen lo'e the maud. shepherd's plaid BURNS TO THE GUDEWIFE OF WAUCHOPE-HOUSE. I MIND it weel in early date, bout When I was beardless, young, and blate, bashful When first among the yellow corn A man I reckoned was, And wi' the lave ilk merry morn fatigued rest, merry nonsense E'en then, a wish, I mind its power- Shall strongly heave my breast- The rough burr-thissle, spreading wide I turned the weeder-clips aside, barley And spared the symbol dear! No nation, no station, My envy e'er could raise, I knew nae higher praise. But still the elements o' sang, She roused the forming strain. I see her yet, the sonsie quean, I fired, inspired, At every kindling keek, Health to the sex, ilk guid chiel says, Is rapture-giving woman. Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name, Be mindfu' o' your mither; |