Robert Burns - Part 3

These poems parallel the life of Robert Burns. So for best effect they should be read in the order in which they appeared. i.e., Part 1 Part 2 etc.
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   The Tarbolton Lasses

If ye gae up to yon hill-tap,
   Ye’ll there see bonnie Peggy;
She kens her father is a laird,
   And she forsooth’s a leddy.                      lady

There Sophie tight, a lassie bright,
   Besides a handsome fortune:
Wha canna win her in a night,                     Who cannot
   Has little art in courtin.

Gae down by Failie, and taste the ale, Go
   An’ tak a look o’ Mysie;                          take a look at
She’s dour and dim, a diel within,               devil
   But alblins she may please ye.               perhaps

If she be shy, her sister try,
   Ye’ll maybe fancy Jenny;
If ye’ll dispense wi’ want o’ sense—
   She kens hersel she’s bonnie.               knows

As ye gae up by yon hillside,
   Speir in for bonnie Bessy;                     Look in, or call in
She’ll gie ye a beck, and bid ye light,        curtsy
   And handsomely address ye.

There’s few sae bonnie, nane sae guid,      none so good
   In a’ King Georg’ dominion;                    all
If ye should doubt the truth o’ this—
   Its Bessy’s ain opinion!                         own
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Now while this next poem is unquestionably witty, there is also a streak of defiance and class consciousness running through it:

         The Ronalds Of The Bennals

In Tarbolton, ye ken, there are proper young men,
   And proper young lasses and a’, man:                       all
But ken ye the Ronalds that live in the Bennals.
   They carry the gree frae them a’, man.                       prize

Their father’s a laird, and weel he can apare’t,                well
   Braid money to tocher them a’, man;                         dowry them all
To proper young men, he’ll clink in the hand                  give money
   Gowd guineas a hundred or twa, man.                       Good, two

There’s ane the ca’ Jean, I’ll warrant ye’ve seen            one, call
   As bonnie a lass or as braw, man;                              handsome
But for sense and guid taste she’ll vie wi’ the best,         good, with
   And a conduct that beautifies a’, man.                        all

The charms o’ the min’, the langer they shine,                mind, longer
   The mair admiration they draw, man;                          more
While peaches and cherries, and roses and lilies,
   They fade and they wither awa’, man.                        away

If ye be for Miss Jean, tak this frae a frien’,                   take, friend
   A hint o’ a rival or twa, man;
The Laird o’ Blackbyre wad gang through the fire, go
   If that wad entice her awa, man.                                would, away

The Laird o’ Braehead has been on his speed,
   Far mair than a towmond or twa, man;                      twelvemonth
The Laird o’ the Ford will straught on a board,            stretch (die)
   If he canna get her at a’, man                                   cannot, all

Then Anna comes in, the pride o’ her kin,
   The boast of our bachelors a’, man:
Sae sonsie and sweet, sae fully complete,                    good natured
   She steals our affections awa’, man.                         away

If I should detail the pick and the wale
   O’ lasses that live here awa’, man,                           around
The faut wad be min if she didna shine                         fault, didn’t
   The sweetest and best o’ them a’, man.

I lo’e her mysel, but darena well tell,                           love her, daren’t
   My poverty keeps me in awe, man;
For making o’ rhymes, and working at times,
   Does little or naething at a’ man.                              nothing

Yet I wadna choose to let her refuse,                         wouldn’t
   Nor hae’t in her power to say na, man:                    have it, no
For though I be poor, unnoticed, obscure,
   My stomach’s as proud as them a’, man.

Though I canna ride in weel-booted pride,
   And flee o’er the hills like a craw, man,
I can haud up my head wi’ the best o’ the breed,       hold
   Though fluttering ever so braw, man.                      handsome?

My coat and my vest, they are Scotch o’ the best,
   O’ pairs o’ guid breeks I hae twa, man;                 of, breeches, two
And stockings and pumps to put on my stumps,
   And ne’er a wrang steek in them a’, man.              stitch

My sarks they are few, but five o’ them new,           shirts
   Twal’ hundred, as white as the snaw, man.            Twelve, snow
A ten-shilling hat, a Holland cravat;
   There are no monie poets sae braw, man.              many, so fine

I never had freens weel stockit in means,                  friends, stacked
   To leave me a hundred or twa, man;                      two
Nae weel-tocher’d aunts, to wait on their drants,      dowry’d poets
   And wish them in hell for it a’ man.

I never was cannie for hoarding o’ money,                careful
   Or claughtin ‘t together at a’, man;                         clutching
I’ve little to spend, and naething to lend,
   But devil a shilling I awe, man.                               not a shilling I owe
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Now without doubt the dominant influence in Scotland in Burns’s day was the Kirk, (church), with which Burns and other young men, and women, came into conflict. In many instances, it was on account of their immoral sexual conduct. In his case, Burns was cited from the pulpit over Elizabeth Patton, by whom he had a daughter. In public, he was called on to repent. And it would have been known to many, that prior to his marriage to Jean Armour, Burns also had children by Meg Cameron, Jenny Clow, and Ann Park, to say nothing of the scandal of Mary Campbell, whom Burns had promised to marry, but who died after giving birth to a premature baby. Her pregnancy was not the cause of her death, but rather, a fever known as the “putrid”, which she caught while nursing her younger brother, who was ill with the same.

What follows, are a selection of poems dealing with these issues: The Kirk. Children born to him, and the women with whom Burns became intimately associated:

              No Churchman Am I
(Tune-Prepare, my dear brethren, to the tavern let’s fly)

No Churchman am I, for to rail and to write,
No Statesman nor Soldier to plot or to fight,
No sly man of business, contriving a snare,
For a big-belly’d bottle’s the whole of my care.

The Peer I don’t envy, I give him his bow;
I scorn not the Peasant, though ever so low;
But a club of good fellows, like those that are here,
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care.

Here passes the Squire on his brother—his horse;
There Centum per Centum, the Cit with his purse;
But see you the Crown how it waves in the air,
There a big-belly’d bottle still eases my care.

The wife of my bosom, alas! she did die;
For sweet consolation to church I did fly;
I found that old Solomon prov’d it fair,
That a big-belly’d bottle’s a cure for all care.

I once was persuaded a venture to make;
A letter informed me that all was to wreck;
But the pursy old landlord just waddl’d upstairs,
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares.

“Life’s cares they are comforts” – a maxim laid down
By the bard, what d’ye call him, that wore the black gown;
And faith I agree with th’ old prig to a hair,
For a big belly’d bottle’s a heav’n of a care.
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Address To The Unco Guid
 Or the Rigidly Righteous

My Son, these maxims make a rule,
   An’ lump them aye thegither;                                   together
The Rigid Righteous is a fool,
   The Rigid Wise anither:
The cleanest corn that ere was dight                           winnowed
   May hae some pyles o’ caff in;                                chaff
So ne’er a fellow-creature slight
   For random fits o’ daffin                                         larking, fun
                                                    (Solomon,-Eccles. Ch7. v 16)

O ye wha are sae guid yourself,                                 so good yourself
   Sae pious and sae holy,                                          so
Ye’ve naught to do but mark and tell
   Your neibours’ fauts and folly!                               faults
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,                            going
   Supplied wi’ store o’ water;
The heaped happer’s ebbing still,                             hoppers
   An’ still the clap plays clatter.

Hear me, ye venerable core,
   As counsel for poor mortals
That frequent pass douce, Wisdom’s door              sober
   For glaikit Folly’s portals;                                    thoughtless
I, for their thoughtless careless sakes,
   Would here propose defences,
Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes,                 restive
   Their failings and mischances.

Ye see your state wi’ theirs compared,
   And shudder at the niffer;                                    exchange
But cast a moment’s fair regard,
   What makes the mighty differ;
Discount what scant occasion gave,
   That purity ye pride in;
And (what’s aft mair than a’ the lave),                    more
   Your better art o’ hiding.

Think, when your castigated pulse
   Gies now and then a wallop,                              Gives
What ragings must his veins convulse,
   That still eternal gallop:
Wi’ wind and tide fair i’ your tail,
   Right on ye scud your sea-way;
But in the teeth o’ baith to sail,
   It maks a unco leeway.                                     unknown

See Social Life and Glee sit down,
   All joyous and unthinking,
Till, quite transmogrified, they’re grown
   Debauchery and Drinking:
O would they stay to calculate
   Th’ eternal consequences;
Or your more dreaded hell to state,
   Damnation of expenses.

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames,
   Tied up in godly laces,
Before ye gie poor Frailty names,                              give
   Suppose a change o’ cases;
A dear-lov’d lad, convenience snug,
   A treach’rous inclination—
But let me whisper i’ your lug,
   Ye’re aiblins nae temptation.

Then gently scan your brother man,
   Still gentler sister woman;
Tho’ they may gang a kennin wrang,                        go, slightly wrong
   To step aside is human:
One point must still be greatly dark—
   The moving Why they do it;
And just as lanely can ye mark,
   How far perhaps they rue it.

Who made the heart, ‘tis he alone
   Decidedly can try us;
He knows each chord, its various tone,
   Each spring, its various bias:
Then at the balance let’s be mute,
   We never can adjust it;
What’s done we partly may compute,
   But know not what’s resisted.

In this next poem, Burns celebrates the life of his “illegitimate” daughter, Elizabeth, by Elizabeth Patten, a servant girl to his widowed mother. But despite the obvious joy and affection that Burns expresses, there is, in this song, that continuing sense of, them and us.
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Continued in Part 4

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© Cormac McCloskey
    (Poems excluded)
Note: This blog, "Robert Burns - Part 3" was first published on Windows Live Spaces, by me, on 7th February 2006