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 in mon;

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, disim 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 id 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 everp,

or proud imperial purple.

farewell then,ng hale then,

an' plenty be your fa;

may losses and crosses

ne'er at your han ca'!

r. burns

march, 1787