{"id":1130,"date":"2007-01-01T22:41:11","date_gmt":"2007-01-02T04:41:11","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.conradaskland.com\/blog\/2007\/01\/robert-burns\/"},"modified":"2016-04-13T18:40:02","modified_gmt":"2016-04-14T00:40:02","slug":"robert-burns","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/conradaskland.com\/blog\/robert-burns\/","title":{"rendered":"Robert Burns – Scottish Poet 1759-1796"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"robertburns.jpg\"*Update: Check out new music I’ve written specifically for the Robert Burns Supper!<\/a>*<\/p>\n

I am preparing music presentations for a local Robert Burns dinner. It is a long tradition of poetry and art in tribute to the Bard of Scotland. I like to research everything I do, so here is information I’ve found along the way.<\/p>\n

Robert Burns (January 25, 1759 \u00e2\u20ac\u201c July 21, 1796) was a poet and a lyricist. He is widely regarded as the national poet of Scotland, and is the best-known of the poets who have written in the Scots language, although much of his writing is also in English and a ‘light’ Scots dialect which would have been accessible to a wider audience than simply Scottish people. At various times in his career, he wrote in English, and in these pieces, his political or civil commentary is often at its most blunt.<\/p>\n

Robert Burns wrote the poem Auld Lang Syne<\/a> which we still sing today.<\/p>\n

Visit the Official Robert Burns website<\/a> with information about his literary works, Scottish song lyrics and how to host a Robert Burns dinner. Also visit the Wikipedia Robert Burns<\/a> page. Also the Robert Burns Club World Federation. Wikipedia details on a Burns Supper<\/a>.
\nA Burns Supper Guide
\nfrom www.RobertBurns.org<\/a>
\n\"burnsburnssup.jpg\"The annual celebratory tribute to the life, works and spirit of the great Scottish poet, Robert Burns (1759-1796). Celebrated on, or about, the Bard’s birthday, January 25th, Burns Suppers range from stentoriously formal gatherings of esthetes and scholars to uproariously informal rave-ups of drunkards and louts. Most Burns Suppers fall in the middle of this range, and adhere, more or less, to some sort of time honoured form which includes the eating of a traditional Scottish meal, the drinking of Scotch whisky, and the recitation of works by, about, and in the spirit of the Bard.<\/p>\n

Every Burns Supper has its own special form and flavour, though there are probably more similarities than differences among these gastro-literary affairs. Individual tastes and talents will determine the character of your Burns Supper. Some celebrants may contribute the composition of original songs or poems; some may excel at giving toasts or reciting verse; while others may be captivating storytellers. A particular group of celebrants will, over time, develop a unique group character which will distinguish their Burns Supper celebration from every other.<\/p>\n

Our core group has been meeting for 14 years. We started off on a whim, without any notion of traditional form, other than the idea that we would eat haggis, read Burns, and drink whisky (not necessarily in that order). An itinerary evolved that has lots of traditional elements, but leaves room for personal or topical additions. Feel free to add a few unique conventions of your own.<\/p>\n

With a little bit of planning anyone (well, almost anyone) can enjoy a Burns Night celebration. All that’s needed is a place to gather (gracious host), plenty of haggis and neeps to go around (splendid chef), a master of ceremonies (foolhardy chairman), friendly celebrants (you and your drouthy cronies), and good Scotch drink to keep you warm (BYOB). With these ingredients, at least a few celebrants will be able to make prattling fools of themselves, trying to do justice to the words and spirit of Robert Burns. And if everyone brings along a wee dram and a bit of poetry, prose or song then each, in turn, may become an object of mirth and amusement to the gathered throng. Be prepared to enjoy yourself beyond all expectation. With good cheer and gay company we all may, in short, be able to ring in the Bard’s birthday fou rarely.<\/p>\n

I’ve found that most people, although they may be unaware of it, love to attend Burns Suppers. They may feel a little intimidated at the idea of attending a participatory event, but are attracted by the idea of a ribald literary soiree. (They may perceive a Burns Supper to be some sort of droll intellectual exercise – it has hip cachet and doesn’t sound too threatening.) These people are often wonderfully appreciative guests and end up having a great time. And therein lies a dilemma for all Burns Supper organizers: Motivating guests to be active participants, rather than passive appreciators. Everyone should feel comfortable taking part with verse, anecdote or song, but they may need a little help and encouragement. So as a Burns Supper chairman it is highly recommended that you come prepared with plenty of literary ammunition with which to arm any unprepared, or reluctant, celebrants. It helps if you know your guests and can match them with a suitable reading. Better still, you may be able to gently motivate them, in advance, by including an informal listing of sources along with your charming (I’m sure) Burns Supper invitation. Hopefully that, along with the good vibes and good whisky, will be all the encouragement anyone will need to lower their inhibitions to a level that Burns, himself, would appreciate.<\/p>\n

\"rburns1.gif\"
\nFour samples of poems by Robert Burns:<\/p>\n

To a Mouse<\/p>\n

(Whilst ploughing on a November day, Burns ruined the nest of a field mouse. He ponders why the creature runs away in such terror)<\/p>\n

Oh, tiny timorous forlorn beast,
\nOh why the panic in your breast ?
\nYou need not dart away in haste
\nTo some corn-rick
\nI’d never run and chase thee,
\nWith murdering stick.<\/p>\n

I’m truly sorry man’s dominion
\nHas broken nature’s social union,
\nAnd justifies that ill opinion
\nWhich makes thee startle
\nAt me, thy poor earth-born companion,
\nAnd fellow mortal.<\/p>\n

I do not doubt you have to thieve;
\nWhat then? Poor beastie you must live;
\nOne ear of corn that’s scarcely missed
\nIs small enough:
\nI’ll share with you all this year’s grist,
\nWithout rebuff.<\/p>\n

Thy wee bit housie too in ruin,
\nIts fragile walls the winds have strewn,
\nAnd you’ve nothing new to build a new one,
\nOf grasses green;
\nAnd bleak December winds ensuing,
\nBoth cold and keen.<\/p>\n

You saw the fields laid bare and waste,
\nAnd weary winter coming fast,
\nAnd cosy there beneath the blast,
\nThou thought to dwell,
\nTill crash; the cruel ploughman crushed
\nThy little cell.<\/p>\n

Your wee bit heap of leaves and stubble,
\nHad cost thee many a weary nibble.
\nNow you’re turned out for all thy trouble
\nOf house and home
\nTo bear the winter’s sleety drizzle,
\nAnd hoar frost cold.<\/p>\n

But, mousie, thou art not alane,
\nIn proving foresight may be in vain,
\nThe best laid schemes of mice and men,
\nGo oft astray,
\nAnd leave us nought but grief and pain,
\nTo rend our day.<\/p>\n

Still thou art blessed, compared with me!
\nThe present only touches thee,
\nBut, oh, I backward cast my eye
\nOn prospects drear,
\nAnd forward, though I cannot see,
\nI guess and fear.<\/p>\n

The Banks of Doon<\/p>\n

(This song tells of a tragic love affair – not one of the poet’s. A respected young lady of rank had borne a child without the sanction of the Church; forsaken, she died of remorse)<\/p>\n

Ye banks and braes of bonny Doon,
\nHow can ye bloom so fresh and fair,
\nHow can ye chant, ye little birds,
\nWhile I’m so weary, full of care ?
\nYou’ll break my heart thou warbling bird
\nThat flitters through the flowering thorn,
\nYou remind me of departed joys,
\nDeparted – never to return.<\/p>\n

You’ll break my heart, thou bonny bird,
\nThat sings beside thy mate,
\nFor so I sat, and so I sang,
\nBut knew not of my fate.
\nOft did we roam by bonny Doon,
\nTo see the rose and woodbine twine,
\nWhere every bird sang of it’s love,
\nAnd fondly so did I for mine.<\/p>\n

With lightsome heart I pulled a rose,
\nSo sweet upon it’s thorny tree,
\nBut my false lover stole my rose,
\nAnd ah! He left the thorn with me.
\nWith lightsome heart I pulled a rose,
\nUpon a morn in June,
\nAnd so I flowered in the morn,
\nAnd so was ruined by noon.
\nTo a Haggis<\/p>\n

(Haggis is a wholesome savoury pudding, a mixture of mutton and offal. It is boiled and presented at table in a sheep’s stomach)<\/p>\n

All hail your honest rounded face,
\nGreat chieftain of the pudding race;
\nAbove them all you take your place,
\nBeef, tripe, or lamb:
\nYou’re worthy of a grace
\nAs long as my arm.<\/p>\n

The groaning trencher there you fill,
\nYour sides are like a distant hill
\nYour pin would help to mend a mill,
\nIn time of need,
\nWhile through your pores the dews distil,
\nLike amber bead.<\/p>\n

His knife the rustic goodman wipes,
\nTo cut you through with all his might,
\nRevealing your gushing entrails bright,
\nLike any ditch;
\nAnd then, what a glorious sight,
\nWarm, welcome, rich.<\/p>\n

Then plate for plate they stretch and strive,
\nDevil take the hindmost, on they drive,
\nTill all the bloated stomachs by and by,
\nAre tight as drums.
\nThe rustic goodman with a sigh,
\nHis thanks he hums.<\/p>\n

Let them that o’er his French ragout,
\nOr hotchpotch fit only for a sow,
\nOr fricassee that’ll make you spew,
\nAnd with no wonder;
\nLook down with sneering scornful view,
\nOn such a dinner.<\/p>\n

Poor devil, see him eat his trash,
\nAs feckless as a withered rush,
\nHis spindly legs and good whip-lash,
\nHis little feet
\nThrough floods or over fields to dash,
\nO how unfit.<\/p>\n

But, mark the rustic, haggis-fed;
\nThe trembling earth resounds his tread,
\nGrasp in his ample hands a flail
\nHe’ll make it whistle,
\nStout legs and arms that never fail,
\nProud as the thistle.<\/p>\n

You powers that make mankind your care,
\nAnd dish them out their bill of fare.
\nOld Scotland wants no stinking ware,
\nThat slops in dishes;
\nBut if you grant her grateful prayer,
\nGive her a haggis.<\/p>\n

Bess and Her Spinning Wheel<\/p>\n

(Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content)<\/p>\n

I’m happy with my spinning wheel,
\nAnd happy with my wool to reel,
\nFrom head to toes it clothes me fine,
\nAnd wraps so softly me and mine.
\nI settled down to sing and spin,
\nWhile low descends the summer sun,
\nBlest with content, and milk and meal,
\nI’m happy with my spinning wheel.<\/p>\n

On every hand the brooklets wend,
\nUp to my cottage by the bend,
\nThe scented birch and hawthorne white,
\nAcross the pool their arms unite,
\nAlike to screen the birdie’s nest,
\nAnd little fishes cooler rest:
\nThe sun shines kindly where I dwell,
\nWhere smoothly turns my spinning wheel.<\/p>\n

On Lofty oaks the pigeons croon,
\nAnd echo out their doleful tune;
\nThe linnets in the bushes raise
\nSweet songs that rival other lays.
\nThe crakes among the clover run,
\nThe partridge whirring in the sun,
\nThe swallows swooping for their meal,
\nAmuse me at my spinning wheel.<\/p>\n

With small to sell and less to buy,
\nAbove distress, below envy,
\nOh who would leave this humble state,
\nFor all the pride of all the great,
\nAmid their flaring, idle toys,
\nAmid their cumbrous noisy joys ?
\nCan they the peace and pleasure feel
\nOf Bessie at her spinning wheel ?<\/p>\n

A RED, RED ROSE
\nMP3 My Love Is Like a Red, Red Rose<\/a>
\nO, my Luve’s like a red, red rose,
\nThat’s newly sprung in June.
\nO, my Luve’s like a melodie
\nThat’s sweetly play’d in tune.<\/p>\n

As fair as thou, my bonnie lass,
\nSo deep in luve am I;
\nAnd I will love thee still, my dear,
\nTill a’ the seas gang dry.<\/p>\n

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
\nAnd the rocks melt wi’ the sun:
\nI will love thess till, my dear,
\nWhile the sands o’ life shall run:<\/p>\n

And fare thee well, my only luve!
\nAnd fare thee weel, a while!
\nAnd I will come again, my luve,
\nTho’ it ware ten thousand mile.<\/p>\n

UP IN THE MORNING EARLY
\n1788
\nType: Poem<\/p>\n

Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west,
\nThe drift is driving sairly;
\nSae loud and shill’s I hear the blast-
\nI’m sure it’s winter fairly.<\/p>\n

Chorus.-Up in the morning’s no for me,
\nUp in the morning early;
\nWhen a’ the hills are covered wi’ snaw,
\nI’m sure it’s winter fairly.<\/p>\n

The birds sit chittering in the thorn,
\nA’ day they fare but sparely;
\nAnd lang’s the night frae e’en to morn-
\nI’m sure it’s winter fairly.
\nUp in the morning’s, &c.
\nThe Song Of Death
\nScene-A Field of Battle. Time of the day-evening. The wounded and dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in the following song.
\n1791
\nType: Song
\nTune: Oran an aoig.
\nMP3 Song of Death Melody<\/a><\/p>\n

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies,
\nNow gay with the broad setting sun;
\nFarewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties,
\nOur race of existence is run!
\nThou grim King of Terrors; thou Life’s gloomy foe!
\nGo, frighten the coward and slave;
\nGo, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know
\nNo terrors hast thou to the brave!<\/p>\n

Thou strik’st the dull peasant-he sinks in the dark,
\nNor saves e’en the wreck of a name;
\nThou strik’st the young hero-a glorious mark;
\nHe falls in the blaze of his fame!
\nIn the field of proud honour-our swords in our hands,
\nOur King and our country to save;
\nWhile victory shines on Life’s last ebbing sands, –
\nO! who would not die with the brave!<\/p>\n

The Soldier’s Return<\/p>\n

1793
\nType: Song
\nTune: The Mill, mill, O.<\/p>\n

When wild war’s deadly blast was blawn,
\nAnd gentle peace returning,
\nWi’ mony a sweet babe fatherless,
\nAnd mony a widow mourning;
\nI left the lines and tented field,
\nWhere lang I’d been a lodger,
\nMy humble knapsack a’ my wealth,
\nA poor and honest sodger.<\/p>\n

A leal, light heart was in my breast,
\nMy hand unstain’d wi’ plunder;
\nAnd for fair Scotia hame again,
\nI cheery on did wander:
\nI thought upon the banks o’ Coil,
\nI thought upon my Nancy,
\nI thought upon the witching smile
\nThat caught my youthful fancy.<\/p>\n

At length I reach’d the bonie glen,
\nWhere early life I sported;
\nI pass’d the mill and trysting thorn,
\nWhere Nancy aft I courted:
\nWha spied I but my ain dear maid,
\nDown by her mother’s dwelling!
\nAnd turn’d me round to hide the flood
\nThat in my een was swelling.<\/p>\n

Wi’ alter’d voice, quoth I, “Sweet lass,
\nSweet as yon hawthorn’s blossom,
\nO! happy, happy may he be,
\nThat’s dearest to thy bosom:
\nMy purse is light, I’ve far to gang,
\nAnd fain would be thy lodger;
\nI’ve serv’d my king and country lang-
\nTake pity on a sodger.”<\/p>\n

Sae wistfully she gaz’d on me,
\nAnd lovelier was than ever;
\nQuo’ she, “A sodger ance I lo’ed,
\nForget him shall I never:
\nOur humble cot, and hamely fare,
\nYe freely shall partake it;
\nThat gallant badge-the dear cockade,
\nYe’re welcome for the sake o’t.”<\/p>\n

She gaz’d-she redden’d like a rose –
\nSyne pale like only lily;
\nShe sank within my arms, and cried,
\n“Art thou my ain dear Willie?”
\n“By him who made yon sun and sky!
\nBy whom true love’s regarded,
\nI am the man; and thus may still
\nTrue lovers be rewarded.<\/p>\n

“The wars are o’er, and I’m come hame,
\nAnd find thee still true-hearted;
\nTho’ poor in gear, we’re rich in love,
\nAnd mair we’se ne’er be parted.”
\nQuo’ she, “My grandsire left me gowd,
\nA mailen plenish’d fairly;
\nAnd come, my faithfu’ sodger lad,
\nThou’rt welcome to it dearly!”<\/p>\n

For gold the merchant ploughs the main,
\nThe farmer ploughs the manor;
\nBut glory is the sodger’s prize,
\nThe sodgerpppp’s wealth is honor:
\nThe brave poor sodger ne’er despise,
\nNor count him as a stranger;
\nRemember he’s his country’s stay,
\nIn day and hour of danger.<\/p>\n

Versicles, A.D. 1793<\/p>\n

The Henpecked Husband<\/p>\n

1788
\nType: Poem<\/p>\n

Curs’d be the man, the poorest wretch in life,
\nThe crouching vassal to a tyrant wife!
\nWho has no will but by her high permission,
\nWho has not sixpence but in her possession;
\nWho must to he, his dear friend’s secrets tell,
\nWho dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell.
\nWere such the wife had fallen to my part,
\nI’d break her spirit or I’d break her heart;
\nI’d charm her with the magic of a switch,
\nI’d kiss her maids, and kick the perverse bitch.<\/p>\n

The Fall Of The Leaf<\/p>\n

1788
\nType: Poem<\/p>\n

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill,
\nConcealing the course of the dark-winding rill;
\nHow languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear!
\nAs Autumn to Winter resigns the pale year.<\/p>\n

The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown,
\nAnd all the gay foppery of summer is flown:
\nApart let me wander, apart let me muse,
\nHow quick Time is flying, how keen Fate pursues!<\/p>\n

How long I have liv’d-but how much liv’d in vain,
\nHow little of life’s scanty span may remain,
\nWhat aspects old Time in his progress has worn,
\nWhat ties cruel Fate, in my bosom has torn.<\/p>\n

How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain’d!
\nAnd downward, how weaken’d, how darken’d, how pain’d!
\nLife is not worth having with all it can give-
\nFor something beyond it poor man sure must live.<\/p>\n

Remorse
\nFragment
\n1784
\nType: Poem<\/p>\n

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace,
\nThat press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish
\nBeyond comparison the worst are those
\nBy our own folly, or our guilt brought on:
\nIn ev’ry other circumstance, the mind
\nHas this to say, “It was no deed of mine:”
\nBut, when to all the evil of misfortune
\nThis sting is added, “Blame thy foolish self!”
\nOr worser far, the pangs of keen remorse,
\nThe torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt-
\nOf guilt, perhaps, when we’ve involved others,
\nThe young, the innocent, who fondly lov’d us;
\nNay more, that very love their cause of ruin!
\nO burning hell! in all thy store of torments
\nThere’s not a keener lash!
\nLives there a man so firm, who, while his heart
\nFeels all the bitter horrors of his crime,
\nCan reason down its agonizing throbs;
\nAnd, after proper purpose of amendment,
\nCan firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace?
\nO happy, happy, enviable man!
\nO glorious magnanimity of soul!<\/p>\n

1782
\nType: Song<\/p>\n

O raging Fortune’s withering blast
\nHas laid my leaf full low, O!
\nO raging Fortune’s withering blast
\nHas laid my leaf full low, O!<\/p>\n

My stem was fair, my bud was green,
\nMy blossom sweet did blow, O!
\nThe dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild,
\nAnd made my branches grow, O!<\/p>\n

But luckless Fortune’s northern storms
\nLaid a’ my blossoms low, O!
\nBut luckless Fortune’s northern storms
\nLaid a’ my blossoms low, O!<\/p>\n

POLITICS
\n1793
\nType: Poem<\/p>\n

In Politics if thou would’st mix,
\nAnd mean thy fortunes be;
\nBear this in mind,-be deaf and blind,
\nLet great folk hear and see.<\/p>\n

On A Suicide<\/p>\n

1794
\nType: Poem<\/p>\n

Earth’d up, here lies an imp o’ hell,
\nPlanted by Satan’s dibble;
\nPoor silly wretch, he’s damned himsel’,
\nTo save the Lord the trouble.<\/p>\n

No Churchman Am I<\/p>\n

1782
\nType: Song
\nTune: Prepare, my dear Brethren, to the tavern let’s fly.<\/p>\n

No churchman am I for to rail and to write,
\nNo statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight,
\nNo sly man of business contriving a snare,
\nFor a big-belly’d bottle’s the whole of my care.<\/p>\n

The peer I don’t envy, I give him his bow;
\nI scorn not the peasant, though ever so low;
\nBut a club of good fellows, like those that are here,
\nAnd a bottle like this, are my glory and care.<\/p>\n

Here passes the squire on his brother-his horse;
\nThere centum per centum, the cit with his purse;
\nBut see you the Crown how it waves in the air?
\nThere a big-belly’d bottle still eases my care.<\/p>\n

The wife of my bosom, alas! she did die;
\nfor sweet consolation to church I did fly;
\nI found that old Solomon proved it fair,
\nThat a big-belly’d bottle’s a cure for all care.<\/p>\n

I once was persuaded a venture to make;
\nA letter inform’d me that all was to wreck;
\nBut the pursy old landlord just waddl’d upstairs,
\nWith a glorious bottle that ended my cares.<\/p>\n

“Life’s cares they are comforts”-a maxim laid down
\nBy the Bard, what d’ye call him, that wore the black gown;
\nAnd faith I agree with th’ old prig to a hair,
\nFor a big-belly’d bottle’s a heav’n of a care.
\nLove For Love<\/p>\n

1792
\nType: Poem<\/p>\n

Ithers seek they ken na what,
\nFeatures, carriage, and a’ that;
\nGie me love in her I court,
\nLove to love maks a’ the sport.<\/p>\n

Let love sparkle in her e’e;
\nLet her lo’e nae man but me;
\nThat’s the tocher-gude I prize,
\nThere the luver’s treasure lies.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

*Update: Check out new music I’ve written specifically for the Robert Burns Supper!* I am preparing music presentations for a local Robert Burns dinner. It is a long tradition of poetry and art in tribute to the Bard of Scotland. I like to research everything I do, so here is information I’ve found along the […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[30,35],"tags":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p3C0LX-ie","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/conradaskland.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1130"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/conradaskland.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/conradaskland.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/conradaskland.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/conradaskland.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1130"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/conradaskland.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1130\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":6524,"href":"https:\/\/conradaskland.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1130\/revisions\/6524"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/conradaskland.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1130"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/conradaskland.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1130"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/conradaskland.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1130"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}