Robert Burns - Part 6

These poems parallel the life of Robert Burns. For best effect, therefore you should read the blogs in the order in which they appeared, i.e. Part 1, Part 2, etc.


   On Dining With Lord Daer

This wot ye’ all whom it concerns,
I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns,
                         October twenty third—
A ne’er-to-be forgotten day—
Sae far I sprackl’d up the brae,
                         I dinner’d wi’ a Lord.

I’ve been at drunken writers’ feasts
Nay, been bitch-fou ‘mang godly priests—
                         Wi’ rev’rence be it spoken!
I’ve even join’d the honour’d jorum,
When mighty Squireships of the quorum,
                         Their hydra-drouth did sloken!         spend money on drink

But wi’ a Lord!—stand out my shin,
A Lord—A Peer—and Earl’s son!
                         Up higher yet my bonnet!
An’ sic a Lord!—lang Scoth ells twa,
Our Peerage he o’erlooks them a’,
                         As I look o’er my sonnet.

But O for Hogarth’s magic pow’r
To show Sir Bardy’s willyart glow’r!—                      bashful
                         And how he star’d and stammer’d,
When goavin, as if led wi’ branks,
An’ stumpin on his ploughman shanks,                   bridle
                         He in the parlour hammer’d.

I sidling shelter’d in a nook
An’ at his lordship steal’t a look,
                         Like some portentous omen!
Except good sense and social glee,
An’—What surpris’d me—modesty,
                         I markéd nought uncommon.

I watch’d the symptoms o’ the Great,
The gentle pride, the lordly state,
                         The arrogant assuming;
The fient a pride—nae pride had he,
Nor sauce, nor state that I could see,
                         Mair than an honest ploughman!

Then from his Lordship I shall learn,
Henceforth to meet with unconcern
                         Ones rank as well’s another;
Nae honest, worthy man my care
To meet with noble youthful Daer,
                          For he but meets a brother.
_____

The problem for Burns, however, was how he, a relative unknown from rural Scotland, could get the necessary introductions to people of influence; people who might be persuaded to endorse his work. In the first instance, he wrote to Sir John Whitefoord, supposedly to thank him for defending his character; but clearly hoping that he would become a patron. But friends from Ayrshire were also working on his behalf. And unknown to them, some citizens in Edinburgh managed to have a review of the ploughman’s poems printed in Sibbald’s “Edinburgh Magazine.” But the final impetus to success came not from Edinburgh, but from London, in an endorsement of Burns’s poems in the London Monthly Review:

“The objects that have obtained the attention of the author are humble; for he himself, born in a low station, and following a laborious employment, has had no opportunity of observing scenes in the higher walks of life; yet his verses are sometimes struck off with a delicacy and artless simplicity that charms like the bewitching though irregular touches of a Shakespeare.”

Having gained acceptance by the notables in Edinburgh, Burns understood that in turn, he was expected to extol the virtues of Scotland’s capitol city in verse. Which he did in this “Address To Edinburgh”.


  Address To Edinburgh

Edina! Scotia’s darling seat!
   All hail thy palaces and tow’rs,
Where once beneath a monarch’s feet,
   Sat legislation’s sov’rign pow’rs!
From marking wildly scatt’red flow’rs,
   As on the banks of Ayr I stray’d,
And singing, lone, the lingering hours,
   I shelter in thy honour’d shade.

Here Wealth still swells the golden tide,
   As busy Trade his labours plies;
There Architecture’s noble pride
   Bids elegance and splendour rise;
Here Justice, from her native skies,
   High wields her balance and her rod;
There Learning, with his eagle eyes,
   Seeks Science in her coy abode.

Thy Sons, Edina, social, kind,
   With open arms the stranger hail;
Their views enlarg’d, their lib’ral mind,
   Above the narrow, rural vale:
Attentive still to Sorrow’s wail,
   Or modest Merit’s silent claim;
And never may their sources fail!
   And never Envy blot their name!

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn,
   Gay as the gilded summer sky,
Sweet as the dewy, milk-white thorn,
   Dear as the raptur’d thrill of joy!
Fair Burnet strikes th’ adoring eye,
   Heav’ns beauties on my fancy shine;
I see the Sire of Love on high,
   And own His work indeed divine.

There, watching high the least alarms,
   The rough, rude fortress gleams afar;
Like some bold vet’ran, grey in arms,
   And mark’d with many a scamy scar.
The pond’rous wall and massy bar,
   Grim-rising o’er the rugged rock,
Have oft withstood assailing war,
   And oft repell’d th’ invader’s shock.

With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears,
   I view that noble, stately Dome,
Where Scotia’s kings of other years,
   Fam’d heroes! had their royal home:
Alas, how chang’d the times to come!
   Their royal name low in the dust!
Their hapless race wild-wand’ring roam!
   Tho’ rigid Law cries out “’twas just.”

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps,
   Whose ancestors, in days of yore,
Thro’ hostile ranks and ruin’d gaps
   Old Scotia’s bloody lion bore:
Ev’n I who sing in rustic lore,
   Haply my sires have left their shed,
And fac’d grim Danger’s loudest roar,
   Bold following where your fathers led!

Edina! Scotia’s darling seat!
   All hail thy palaces and tow’rs;
Where once, beneath a Monarch’s feet,
   Sat Legislation’s sovereign pow’rs:
From marking wildly scatt’red flow’rs,
   As on the banks of Ayr I stray’d,
And singing, lone, the ling’ring hours,
   I shelter in thy honour’d shade.
_____

This next poem, believed to have been written for the people of Edinburgh, is difficult, on account of the dialect in places. But if you read through the poem and ignore the explanations, you can get a definite sense of what is going on. Haggis, (as I have had it), is akin to black pudding, which is delicious. It is congealed pigs blood held together with rusk and bound in pig’s intestine. Sounds disgusting. But fried, it is, as I say, delicious!

     Address To A Haggis

Fair a’ your honest, sonsie face,                     all, happy
Great chieftain o’ the pudding-race!
Aboon them a’ yet tak your place,                  above, take
                   Painch, tripe, or thairm:              Paunch bellied
Weel are ye wordy o’ a grace
                   As lang’s my arm.                      As long as

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,                        buttocks
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
                   In time o’ need,
While thro’ your pores the dews distil
                   Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,                   wiped
An’ cut you up wi’ ready sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
                   Like onie ditch;                          any
And then, O what a glorious sight,
                   Warm-reekin’, rich!

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an’ strive,
Deil tak the hindmost! on the drive,
Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve             well swelled bellies
                    Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
                    "Bethankit!" hums.                  Grace after meat

Is there that owre his French ragout
Or Olio that would staw a sow,                     sicken
Or fricassee wad make her spew
                    Wi’ perfect sconner,                disgust
Looks down wi’ sneering, sconnfu’ view         scornful
                    On sic a dinner?                     Such

Poor devil see him owre his trash,
As feckles as a wither’d rash,
His spindle shank a quid whip-lash,              good
                    His nieve a nit;                        fist
Thro’ bloody flood or field to dash,
                    O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his wailie nieve a blade.                   ample fist
                    He’ll make it whissle;             whistle
An’ legs an’ arms, an’ hands will sned,        lop off
                    Like taps o’ thrissle.

Ye Pow’rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o’ fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware       no watery
                    That jaups in luggies;             splashes, dishes
But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer,
                    Gie her a haggis.
_____

While in Edinburgh, Robert Burns sought out the grave of Robert Ferguson, a fellow Scottish bard, who, in October 1774, died at the early age of twenty four. Finding his grave unmarked, Burns was given permission to erect a commemorative stone, on which, he inscribed these lines, that here go under the heading, “Inscription On The Tomb Of Ferguson The Poet”. And if you read it carefully, besides paying tribute to the young Robert Ferguson, the lines are a critique of Edinburgh society, a pointer to an eventual “Parting of the waves”: where the wider social elite lost interest in the ploughman poet, and he in them; believing as he did, that much that passed for greatness, was in fact, pretence.

Inscription On The Tomb Of Ferguson The Poet

No sculptur’d marble here, nor pompous lay,
   “No storied urn nor animated bust.”
This simple stone directs pale Scotia’s way,
   To pour her sorrows o’er the Poet’s dust.

She mourns, sweet tuneful youth, thy hapless fate;
   Tho’ all the powers of song thy fancy fired,
Yet Luxury and Wealth lay by in state,
   And thankless, starv’d what they so much admired.

This humble tribute, with a tear, now gives
   A brother Bard—he can no more bestow;
But dear to fame thy Song immortal lives,
   A nobler monument than art can show.
_____

While in Edinburgh, the Caledonian Hunt sponsored a second edition of Burns’s poems. And in the circumstance, he had little choice but to accept their censorship. So parts of “The Dream” were deemed inappropriate, as was, “Holy Willie”, “The Bonnie Lass Of Ballochmyle” and “Young Peggy”. There was too, “Love And Liberty” (The Jolly Beggars), and even the suggestion that none of his poems in dialect should be published. So here is an example of what was considered inappropriate, as compared to the highly desirable., though manufactured, “Address To Edinburgh”:

       Young Peggy Blooms
      (Tune-Loch Eroch-side)

Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass,
   Her blush is like the morning,
The rosy dawn, the springing grass,
   With early gems adorning:
Her eyes outshine the radiant beams
   That gild the passing shower,
And glitter o’er the crystal streams,
   And cheer each fresh’ning flower.

Her lips, more than the cherries bright,
   A richer dye has grac’d them;
They charm th’ admiring gazer’s sight,
   And sweetly tempt to taste them:
Her smile is as the ev’ning mild,
   When feath’rd pairs are courting,
And little lambkins wanton wild,
   In playful bands disporting.

Were Fortune lovely Peggy’s foe,
   Such sweetness would relent her;
As blooming Spring unbends the brow
   Of surly, savage Winter.
Detraction’s eye no aim can gain
   Her winning pow’rs to lessen;
And fretful Envy grins in vain
   The poison’d tooth to fasten.

Ye Pow’rs of Honour, Love and Truth,
   From ev’ry ill defend her!
Inspire the highly favour’d youth
   The destinies intend her:
Still fan the sweet connubial flame
   Responsive in each bosom;
And bless the dear parental name
   With many a filial blossom.
____
Notwithstanding the social sensitivities of the notables of Edinburgh, it is not surprising that Burns, on taking his leave, observed that, “my numerous Edinburgh friendships are of so tender a construction that they will not bear carriage with me.”


_________________
© Cormac McCloskey
    (Poems excluded)
Note: This blog, "Robert Burns - Part 6", was first published on Windows Live Spaces, by me, on 22nd February 2006