by Robert Burns
A Red Red Rose
O my Luve’s like a red, red rose,
That’s newly sprung in June;
O my Luve’s like the melodie
That’s sweetly play’d in tune.—
As fair art thou, my bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will love thee still, my Dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.—
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my Dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun:
I will love thee still, my Dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.—
And fare thee weel, my only Luve!
And fare thee weel, a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho’ it were ten thousand mile!
As Burns lay dying at his house, the Mill Vennel at Dumfries, a girl who lived across the road would come each day to comfort him and assist his wife. Her name was Jessy Lewars and she played the harpsichord, causing Burns to ponder her sweetness and imagine himself in love with her.
Oh Wert Thou in the Cauld Blast
Oh wert thou in the cauld blast,
On yonder lea, on yonder lea;
My plaidie to the angry airt,
I’d shelter thee, I’d shelter thee:
Or did misfortune’s bitter storms
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield should be my bosom,
To share it a’, to share it a’.
Or were I in the wildest waste,
Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,
The desart were a paradise,
If thou wert there, if thou wert there.
Or were I monarch o’ the globe,
Wi’ thee to reign, wi’ thee to reign;
The brightest jewel in my crown,
Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.
The summer is gone and the lasses with it, but Burns was minded to dwell on the beauty and promise of the young. He is to me the poet of human growth. And here we have it: the pride felt by Mary Ann at the sight of her laddie is also a mark of trust in the power of regeneration. Leaves may fall, but only to compost the wide earth, and better days lie ahead. At Eglinton Park in Kilwinning I once found these words written on a sheet of paper and stuffed between a crack in the rocks.
Lady Mary Ann
O Lady Mary Ann looks o’er the castle-wa’,
She saw three bonie boys playing at the ba’,
The youngest he was the flower amang them a’,
My bonie laddie’s young but he’s growin yet.—
O Father, O Father, an ye think it fit,
We’ll send him a year to the College yet,
We’ll sew a green ribban round about his hat,
And that will let them ken he’s to marry yet.—
Lady Mary Ann was a flower in the dew,
Sweet was its smell and bonie was its hue,
And the langer it blossom’d, the sweeter it grew,
For the lily in the bud will be bonier yet.—
Young Charlie Cochran was the sprout of an aik,
Bonie, and bloomin and straught was its make,
The sun took delight to shine for its sake,
And it will be the brag o’ the forest yet.—
The Simmer is gane when the leaves they were green,
And the days are awa that we hae seen,
But far better days I trust will come again,
For my bonie laddie’s young but he’s growin yet.—
Burns had thirteen children and was able to cast the best of what he felt for their mothers – those lively sweetheart lasses – as beneficent light on the little ones, in every case honouring the joy of their conception. With the servant-girl Betsy Paton he had his first daughter, Betty, whom he welcomes into her role as the apple of her father’s eye.
A Poet’s Welcome to His Love-Begotten Daughter; the First Instance that Entitled Him to the Venerable Appellation of Father
Thou’s welcome, Wean! Mischanter fa’ me,
If thoughts o’ thee, or yet thy Mamie,
Shall ever daunton me or awe me,
My bonie lady;
Or if I blush when thou shalt ca’ me
Tyta, or Daddie.—
Tho’ now they ca’ me, Fornicator,
And tease my name in kintra clatter,
The mair they talk, I’m kend the better;
E’en let them clash!
An auld wife’s tongue’s a feckless matter
To gie ane fash.—
Welcome! My bonie, sweet, wee Dochter!
Tho’ ye come here a wee unsought for;
And tho’ your comin I hae fought for,
Baith Kirk and Queir;
Yet by my faith, ye’re no unwrought for,
That I shall swear!
Wee image o’ my bonie Betty,
As fatherly I kiss and daut thee,
As dear and near my heart I set thee,
Wi’ as gude will,
As a’ the Priests had seen me get thee
That’s out o’ hell.—
Sweet fruit o’ monie a merry dint,
My funny toil is no a’ tint;
Tho’ ye come to the warld asklent,
Which fools may scoff at,
In my last plack thy part’s be in’t,
The better half o’t.—
Tho’ I should be the waur bestead,
Thou’s be as braw and bienly clad,
And thy young years as nicely bred
Wi’ education,
As ony brat o’ Wedlock’s bed,
In a’ thy station.—
Lord grant that thou may ay inherit
Thy Mither’s looks an’ gracefu’ merit;
An’ thy poor, worthless Daddie’s spirit,
Without his failins!
’Twad please me mair to see thee heir it
Than stocked mailins!
For if thou be, what I wad hae thee,
And tak the counsel I shall gie thee,
I’ll never rue my trouble wi’ thee,
The cost nor shame o’t,
But be a loving Father to thee,
And brag the name o’t.—
My daughter was born in a room of smiles that stands above the London traffic. And late that night, as her mother slept and the ward stood quiet with its vases of flowers, I carried Nell to a room of cots and washed her in a bath of warm water. The miracle was her face and the sound of the ticking clock: could we hear the trees that shushed in Regent’s Park at that ungodly hour? My daughter smiled and looked straight up as her father stumbled to promise her heaven and earth. In that dark room, I tilted our baby in the water tray as if she were a developing print of an old photograph. Her vital toes pawed the air. At last every inch of her was clear to me and I kissed her as I wrapped her in a towel, reciting the words of Robert Burns’s first poem.
Handsome Nell
O once I lov’d a bonnie lass,
An’ aye I love her still,
An’ whilst that virtue warms my breast
I’ll love my handsome Nell.
As bonnie lasses I hae seen,
And mony full as braw,
But for a modest gracefu’ mein
The like I never saw.
A bonny lass I will confess,
Is pleasant to the e’e,
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 compleat,
And fair without a flaw;
She dresses ay sae clean and neat,
Both decent and genteel;
And then there’s something in her gait
Gars ony dress look weel.
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.
The Drinks
Whisky Collins
large Scotch whisky
two clicks of lemon juice
dash of sugar syrup
soda water (chilled)
slice of lemon
Shake up the Scotch, lemon juice and sugar syrup in a shaker. Pour into a tall glass and top up with soda. Add a slice of lemon.
Scotch Drink
Gie him strong Drink until he wink,
That’s sinking in despair;
An’ liquor guid, to fire his bluid,
That’s prest wi’ grief an’ care:
There let him bowse an’ deep carouse,
Wi’ bumpers flowing o’er,
Till he forgets his loves or debts,
An’ minds his griefs no more.
Solomon’s Proverbs, xxxi:6, 7
Let other Poets raise a fracas
’Bout vines, an’ wines, an’ druken Bacchus,
An’ crabbed names an’ stories wrack us,
An’ grate our lug,
I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us,
In glass or jug.
O thou, my MUSE! Guid, auld SCOTCH DRINK!
Whether thro’ wimplin worms thou jink,
Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink,
In glorious faem,
Inspire me, till I lisp an’ wink,
To sing thy name!
Let husky Wheat the haughs adorn,
And Aits set up their awnie horn,
An’ Pease an’ Beans, at een or morn,
Perfume the plain,
Leeze me on thee John Barleycorn,
Thou king o’ grain!
On thee aft Scotland chows her cood,
In souple scones, the wale o’ food!
Or tumbling in the boiling flood
Wi’ kail an’ beef;
But when thou pours thy strong heart’s blood,
There thou shines chief.
Food fills the wame, an’ keeps us livin:
Tho’ life’s a gift no worth receivin,
When heavy-dragg’d wi’ pine an’ grievin;
But oil’d by thee,
The wheels o’ life gae down-hill, scrievin,
Wi’ rattlin glee.
Thou clears the head o’ doited Lear;
Thou chears the heart o’ drooping Care;
Thou strings the nerves o’ Labor-sair,
At’s weary toil;
Thou ev’n brightens dark Despair,
Wi’ gloomy smile.
Aft, clad in massy, siller weed,
Wi’ Gentles thou erects thy head;
Yet, humbly kind, in time o’ need,
The poorman’s wine,
His wee drap pirratch, or his bread,
Thou kitchens fine.
Thou art the life o’ public haunts;
But thee, what were our fairs an’ rants?
Ev’n goodly meetings o’ the saunts,
By thee inspir’d,
When gaping they besiege the tents,
Are doubly fir’d.
That merry night we get the corn in
O sweetly, then, thou reams the horn in!
Or reekan on a New-year-mornin
In cog or bicker,
An’ just a wee drap sp’ritual burn in,
An’ gusty sucker!
When Vulcan gies his bellys breath,
An’ Ploughmen gather wi’ their graith,
O rare! to see thee fizz an’ fraeth
I’ the lugget caup!
Then Burnewin comes on like Death,
At ev’ry chap.
Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel;
The brawnie, banie, Ploughman-chiel
Brings hard owrehip, wi’ sturdy wheel,
The strong forehammer,
Till block an’ studdie ring an’ reel
Wi’ dinsome clamour.
When skirlin weanies see the light,
Though maks the gossips clatter bright,
How fumbling coofs their dearies slight,
Wae worth the name!
Nae Howdie gets a social night,
Or plack frae them.
When neebors anger at a plea,
An’ just as wud as wud can be,
How easy can the barley-bree
Cement the quarrel!
It’s ay the cheapest Lawyer’s fee
To taste the barrel.
Alake! that e’er my Muse has reason
To wyte her countrymen wi’ treason!
But mony daily weet their weason
Wi’ liquors nice,
An’ hardly, in a winter season,
E’er spier her price.
Wae worth that Brandy, burnan trash!
Fell source o’ monie a pain an’ brash!
Twins mony a poor, doylt, druken hash
O’ half his days;
An’ sends, beside, auld Scotland’s cash
To her warst faes.
Ye Scots wha wish auld Scotland well,
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell,
Poor, plackless devils like mysel,
It sets you ill,
Wi’ bitter, dearthfu’ wines to mell,
Or foreign gill.
May Gravels round his blather wrench,
An’ Gouts torment him, inch by inch,
Wha twists his gruntle wi’ a glunch
O’ sour disdain,
Out owre a glass o’ Whisky-punch
Wi’ honest men!
O Whisky! soul o’ plays an’ pranks!
Accept a Bardie’s gratefu’ thanks!
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks
Are my poor Verses!
Thou comes—they rattle i’ their ranks
At ither’s arses!
Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost!
Scotland lament frae coast to coast!
Now colic-grips, an’ barkin hoast,
May kill us a’;
For loyal Forbes’ Charter’d boast
Is taen awa!
Thae curst horse-leeches o’ th’ Excise,
Wha mak the Whisky stills their prize!
Haud up thy han’ Deil! ance, twice, thrice!
There, seize the blinkers!