N.B, These poems parallel the life of Robert Burns, so ideally they should be read through from Part 1 - 7. The final two blogs 8-9 are a further selection of poems that are in no particular order. They are there simply to be enjoyed.
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Have you ever walked into a library and for a moment found yourself wishing that you could read all the books at once? I have, but of course, that’s as far as it goes. Insight, understanding and appreciation come slowly, but not so slowly in poetry as in prose. That’s because poetry, of its very nature, is a much more condensed form of writing, a medium in which the ideas, thoughts and emotions expressed, are reinforced against a backdrop of images that compliment the subject of the poem.
This point is well illustrated here, in this, one of the earliest of Burns’ love poems. Written when he was nineteen and in love with Peggy Thompson, it is full of complimentary, and at times, seemingly contradictory images associated with the idea of love. And though loving and being in love, is the object of the poem, we are first made aware, that life in the animal kingdom is every bit as varied and complex as it is for humans. But because the “skimming swallow” are flying low, (within reach of the “slaught’ring guns,”) in his imaginings, Burns uses this to convince the object of his love, that it is safe to walk in these fields; fields that mirror his own sense of promise, hence the “ripening corn” and “fruited thorn,” evidence of an abundant harvest to come. And the mood of the poem is reflective and speculative, representing, as it does, a longing that has yet to be fulfilled.
Song Composed In August
Tune-I had a horse, I had nae mair
Now westlin winds and slaught’ring guns
Bring Autumn’s pleasant weather;
And the Moorcock springs on whirring wings
Among the blooming heather:
Now waiving grains, wide o’er the plain,
Delights the weary farmer;
And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night,
To muse upon my charmer.
The partridge loves the fruitful fells,
The plover loves the mountains;
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells,
The soaring hern the fountains:
Thro’ lofty groves the cushat roves,
The path of man to shun it;
The hazel bush o’er hangs the thrush,
The spreading thorn the linnet.
Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find,
The savage and the tender;
Some social join, and leagues combine;
Some solitary wander.
Avaunt, away! The cruel sway,
Tyrannic man’s dominion;
The sportsman’s joy the murd’ring cry,
The flutt’ring, gory pinion!
But PEGGY dear, the ev’ning’s clear,
Thick flies the skimming swallow,
The sky is blue, the fields in view,
All fading-green and yellow:
Come let us stray our gladsome way,
And view the charms of nature;
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn,
And ev’ry happy creature.
We’ll gently walk, and sweetly talk
Till the silent moon shines clearly;
I’ll grasp thy waist, and fondly prest,
Swear how I love thee dearly:
Not vernal show'rs to budding flow’rs,
Not Autumn to the farmer,
So dear can be as thou to me,
My fair, my lovely charmer!
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And here, at the age of fourteen is Burns first attempt at writing verse. It was composed in the summer months, when he fell in love with his harvest partner, Nelly Kilpatrick. In his Commonplace book he wrote:
“I never had the least thought or inclination of turning Poet until I once got heartily in love, and then rhyme and song were, in a manner, the spontaneous language of my heart. The following composition was the first of my performances. It is, indeed, very puerile and silly; but I am always pleased with it, as it recalls to my mind those happy days when my heart was yet honest, and my tongue was sincere.”
O, once I lov’d a bonnie lass,
Ay, and I love her still;
And whilst that virtue warms my breast,
I’ll love my handsome Nell.
As bonnie lasses I hae seen,
And monie full as braw; handsome
But for a modest gracefu’ mien,
The like I never saw.
A bonnie lass, I will confess,
Is pleasant to the e’e; eye
But without some better qualities,
She’s no a lass for me.
But Nelly’s looks are blythe and sweet,
And what is best of a’,
Her reputation is complete.
And fair without a flaw.
She dresses aye sae clean and neat,
Both decent and genteel;
And then there’s something in her gait
Gars onnie dress look weel. Makes, well
A gaudy dress and gentle air
May slightly touch the heart;
But it’s innocence and modesty
That polishes the dart.
'Tis, this in Nelly pleases me,
'Tis this enchants my soul;
For absolutely in my breast
She reigns without control.
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In poetry and song, Burns was a master of his craft and impressive in the imaginative range of his writing. He versified the psalms and wrote about death, (in the imaginary dying words of a sheep,) He wrote Epitaphs that were witty and often satirical; and he sent letters to friends in the form of Epistles. But perhaps, as only a “ploughman poet” could, (in a conversation between two dogs,) he favourably compared the lives of the poor to those of the Lord, or landowning gentry. Though from different social backgrounds, the dogs are firm friends and the poem: “The Twa Dogs” ends with “Caesar” and “Luath” agreeing to meet again; after which, they rise and stretch, before wandering off, back to their respective worlds. A satirist, Burns lampooned the Kirk (the church,) that required him and others to account publicly for their sexual immorality. And he submitted his returns to the taxman in verse. Here, in dialect, is a snippet of what Burns had to say to the taxman, and as we would expect, with some wit, he is pleading poverty. What he is saying is, that he has neither servants nor a horse on which he might have to pay tax: just a sturdy pair of legs, a loving "misses", (not yet a wife,) and a houseful of children. And they are his fortune.
From: The Inventory
In answer to a mandate from the Surveyor of the Taxes
I’ve nane in female servant station. none
(Lord keep me aye frae a’ temptation!) away from
I hae mae wife—and that my bliss is-- my
An’ ye have laid nae tax on misses; no
An’ then, if kirk folks dinna clutch me, don’t
I ken the devils dare not touch me. know
Wi’ weans I’m mair han weel contented, children, have
Heav’n sent me ane mae than I wanted! one
My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess, jolly, well conditioned
She stares the daddy in her face,
Enough of ought ye like but grace;
But her, my bonnie, sweet wee lady.
’ve paid enough for her already;
An’ gin ye tax her or her mither, will
By the Lord, ye’se get them a’ thegither!
And now, remember, Mr Aiken
Nae kind o’ licence out I’m takin’; no
Frae this time forth, I do declare, From
I’se ne’er ride horse nor bizzie mair; never
Thro’ dirt and dub for life I’ll paidle, mud, paddle
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle;
My travel a' on foot I'll shank it,
I’ve stirdy bearers, Gude be thankit! legs
The Kirk an’ you may tak you that, take
It puts but little in your pat; pot
Sae dinna put me in your beuk, don’t
Nor for my ten white shillings leuk.
This list, wi’ my ain hand I wrote it, with, hand
The day and date as under noted;
Then know all ye whom it concerns,
Subscripsi huic,
ROBERT BURNS
Moissgiel February 22 1786
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In the context of his wit, his love poetry and the many affairs that he had with women, it is easy to romanticise and thereby distort the life of Robert Burns. The truth is, that he was a complex man, with a side to his character that was as dark as the rest was brilliant. That accepted, he is unique among poets, because today, several hundred years after his death, his birthday is celebrated, not just in Scotland, but in places as distant and unlikely as Russia and Japan.
Born in Alloway in Scotland in 1759, Burns died at the age of 37. And though something of an outcast to many, and poor, he left to posterity some of the most beautiful, moving, imaginative and thought-provoking songs and poems in the English language.
His father, William Burness, (Robert later changed the family name to Burns,) was a small but ambitious farmer; a man who understood only too well, the precarious nature of his livelihood. In this context he wanted his sons to be educated, so as to have skills that might prove useful as an alternative to farming, should times get tough. With this in mind and with the support of his neighbours, William Burness set up his own school and employed John Murdoch to teach. But, when several years later, John Murdoch moved to a better-paid job, William Burness took upon himself, the education of his children. Later, in the summer months and taking it week about, Robert and his younger brother Gilbert, went to Darymple school, with Robert later going to Ayr to study: grammar, French and Latin, and then to Kirkswald to study mensuration and surveying. Having rented a larger farm, William Burness then sent Robert to Irvine to learn the art of flax dressing. But when their father died in 1784, Robert and Gilbert took over the working of the farm, that is, until the publication of: “Poems Chiefly In The Scottish Dialect,” when Robert’s reputation became more widespread and the work on the farm increasingly fell to Gilbert. Instead, Robert was travelling through the border region of Scotland, and besides giving readings of his poems; he was becoming ever more interested in the collecting and preserving of traditional tunes and folk songs.
In this context, many of Burns’ poems are autobiographical, so here are a few that give an insight, not just into family life, where his father William was overseer and moral guardian, but also into Robert’s connection with the soil, from where he gained questionable renown as the “ploughman poet.”
My father was a farmer, upon the Carrick Border, O;
And carefully he bred me in decency and order, O.
He bade me act a manly part, thou I had ne'er a farthing, O;
For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth regarding, O.
Then out into the world at length, my course I did determine, O;
Tho’ to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was charming, O.
My talents they were not the worst, nor yet my education, O;
Resolv’d was I at least to try, to mend my situation, O.
In many a way and vain essay, I courted Fortunes favour, O;
Some cause unseen still stept between, to frustrate each endeavour, O.
Sometimes by foes I was o’erpower’d, sometimes by friends forsaken, O;
And when my hope was at the top, I still was worst mistaken, O.
Then sore harass’d, and tir’d at last, with Fortune’s vain delusion, O;
I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this conclusion, O.
The past was bad, and the future hid, its good or ill untried, O;
But the present hour was in my pow’r, and so I would enjoy it, O.
No help, nor hope, nor view had I, nor person to befriend me, O;
So I must toil, and sweat and moil, and labour to sustain me, O.
To plough and sow, and reap and mow, my father bred me early, O;
For one he said, to labour bread, was a match for fortune early, O.
Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro’ life I’m doom’d to wander, O;
Till down my weary bones I lay in everlasting slumber, O.
No view nor care, but shun whate’er might breed me pain or sorrow, O.
I live today as well’s I may, regardless of tomorrow, O.
But cheerful still, I am as well, as a monarch in a palace, O;
Tho’ Fortune’s frown still hunts me down, with all her wonted malice, O.
I make indeed my daily bread, but ne'er can make it further, O;
But as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard her, O.
When sometimes by my labour, I can earn a little money, O;
Some unforeseen misfortune still, comes gen'rally upon me, O –
Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my good-natur'd folly, O –
But come what will, I’ve sworn it still, I’ll ne'er be melancholy, O.
All you who follow wealth and power with unremitting ardour, O;
The more in this you look for bliss, you leave your view the farther, O.
Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore you, O;
A cheerful honest-hearted clown, I will prefer before you, O.
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This next poem, “The Cotters Saturday Night,” runs to twenty-one stanzas and it is dedicated to “Mr Aiken Esq. Of Ayr”, who was known locally as: “Orator Bob” because of his “love of spouting.” An admirer of the poetry of the young Burns, this particular poem convinced him that Robert Burns was something more than just a local poet, that he had the ability, as one biographer put it: “to command the applause of the most refined and elevated circles.” And it is worth mentioning that this is the same Mr Aiken to whom Burns submitted his tax returns in verse. The intent in this poem, of extolling the simple and virtuous life of the poor, is expressed in the preface, which is a quote from Thomas Gray and the first verse is in praise of Thomas Aiken, to whom the poem is dedicated. It is an idealised view of the lives of cottagers and not withstanding the religious thread that runs through the poem, the final stanza is an appeal to the nationalist aspirations of the people of Scotland, as exemplified in the heroic figure of William Wallace.
“Let not ambition mock their useful toil
Their homely joys and destiny obscure;
Nor grandeur bear, with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.” - Gray.
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My lov’d, my honour’d, much respected friend,
No mercenary hand his homage pays;
With honest pride I scorn each selfish end,
My dearest need, a friend’s esteem and praise:
To you I sing in simple Scottish lays,
The lowly train, in life’s sequester’d scene,
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways,
What Aiken in a cottage would have been;
Ah! tho’ his worth unknown, far happier there I ween!
November chill blaws loud wi’ angry sugh; sigh
The short’ning winter day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh;
The black’ning trains o’ craws to their repose: crows
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes - from
This night his weekly moil is at an end, work
Collects his spades, his mattocks and his hoes,
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
And weary o’er the moor, his course does homeward bend.
At length his lonely cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
Th’ expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through
To meet their dad, wi’ flichterin noise and glee.
His wee-bit ingle, blinkin bonilie, fire, prettily
His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wife’s smile, stone
The lisping infant, prattling on his knee,
Does a’ his weary carking cares beguile,
And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil.
Belyve, the elder bairns come drappin in, children
At service out, amang the farmers roun’;
Some ca’ the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin drive, heedful, run
A cannie errand to a neebor town: useful
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown,
In youthfu’ bloom—love sparkling in her e’e,
Comes hame, perhaps to show a braw new gown, fine
Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee,
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.
With joy unfeign’d, brothers and sisters meet,
And each for other’s welfare kindly spiers: ask
The social hours, swift-wing’d, unnotic’d fleet;
Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears. news/stories
The parents partial eye their hopeful years;
Anticipation forward points the view,
The mother, wi’ her needle and her sheers
Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new, Makes
The father mixes a’ wi’ admiration due.
Continued in Part 2
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© Cormac McCloskey
(Poems excluded)
N.B. The image of Robert Burs was taken from Wikipedia and it is in the public domain. A painting by Alexander Nasmyth (1758-1840) It is housed at the Scottish National Portrait Gallery. Also: {{PD-US}}
Note:: This blog, "Robert Burns - Part 1" was first published on Windows Live Spaces, by me, on 5th of February 2006
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