The Poetic Dayspring
(Fragment From a Letter)
I mind it weel, in early date,
When I was beardless, young and blate,
An’ first could thresh the barn,
Or haud a yokin’ at the pleugh,
An’ tho’ forfoughten sair eneugh,
Yet unco proud to learn,—
When first amang the yellow corn
A man I reckon’d was,
And wi’ the lave ilk merry morn
Could rank my rig and lass,
Still shearing, and clearing
The tither stooked raw,
Wi’ claivers, an’ haivers,
Wearing the day 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 usefu’ plan or beuk could make,
Or sing a sang at least.
The rough bur-thistle, spreading wide
Amang the bearded bear,
I turn’d the weeder-clips 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 hairst 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 my jingle,
Her witching smile, her pauky een,
That gart my heart-strings tingle;
I firèd, inspirèd,
At ev’ry kindling keek,
But bashing, and dashing,
I fearèd aye to speak....