by Robert Burns
When it was sair;
The wife slade cannie to her bed,
But ne’er spak mair.
‘A countra Laird had ta’en the batts,
Or some curmurring in his guts,
His only son for Hornbook sets,
And pays him well,
The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets,
Was Laird himsel.
‘A bonie lass, ye kend her name,
Some ill-brewn drink had hov’d her wame,
She trusts hersel, to hide the shame,
In Hornbook’s care;
Horn sent her aff to her lang hame,
To hide it there.
‘That’s just a swatch o’ Hornbook’s way,
Thus goes he on from day to day,
Thus does he poison, kill, an’ slay,
An’s weel pay’d for’t;
Yet stops me o’ my lawfu’ prey,
Wi’ his damn’d dirt!
‘But, hark! I’ll tell you of a plot,
Tho’ dinna ye be speakin o’t;
I’ll nail the self-conceited Sot,
As dead’s a herrin:
Neist time we meet, I’ll wad a groat,
He gets his fairin!’
But just as he began to tell,
The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell
Some wee, short hour ayont the twal,
Which rais’d us baith:
I took the way that pleas’d mysel,
And sae did Death.
Burns had the guts to speak of the ways that religion may show itself to be blinded and drowned in a sea of unreason, but all the same he sought heaven for an anchor. I always think of the prime minister, Gordon Brown, when I read the following poem (‘May Prudence, Fortitude and Truth/Erect your brow undaunting!’), but since the poem is addressed explicitly to ‘Andrew’, I grew up thinking it must be meant for me. It is heartening to think that Burns is not above a little Polonius-like hypocrisy, and some of us, in our youth, may have found that perfectly congenial.
Epistle to a Young Friend
I lang hae thought, my youthfu’ friend,
A Something to have sent you,
Tho’ it should serve nae other end
Than just a kind memento;
But how the subject theme may gang,
Let time and chance determine;
Perhaps it may turn out a Sang;
Perhaps, turn out a Sermon.
Ye’ll try the world soon my lad,
And ANDREW dear believe me,
Ye’ll find mankind an unco squad,
And muckle they may grieve ye:
For care and trouble set your thought,
Ev’n when your end’s attained;
And a’ your views may come to nought,
Where ev’ry nerve is strained.
I’ll no say, men are villains a’;
The real, harden’d wicked,
Wha hae nae check but human law,
Are to a few restricked:
But Och, mankind are unco weak,
An’ little to be trusted;
If Self the wavering balance shake,
It’s rarely right adjusted!
Yet they wha fa’ in Fortune’s strife,
Their fate we should na censure,
For still th’ important end of life,
They equally may answer:
A man may hae an honest heart,
Tho’ Poortith hourly stare him;
A man may tak a neebor’s part,
Yet hae nae cash to spare him.
Ay free, aff han’, your story tell,
When wi’ a bosom crony;
But still keep something to yoursel
Ye scarcely tell to ony.
Conceal yoursel as weel’s ye can
Frae critical dissection;
But keek thro’ ev’ry other man,
Wi’ sharpen’d, sly inspection.
The sacred lowe o’ weel plac’d love,
Luxuriantly indulge it;
But never tempt th’ illicit rove,
Tho’ naething should divulge it:
I wave the quantum o’ the sin;
The hazard of concealing;
But Och! it hardens a’ within,
And petrifies the feeling!
To catch Dame Fortune’s golden smile,
Assiduous wait upon her;
And gather gear by ev’ry wile,
That’s justify’d by Honor:
Not for to hide it in a hedge,
Nor for a train-attendant;
But for the glorious privilege
Of being independent.
The fear o’ Hell’s a hangman’s whip,
To haud the wretch in order;
But where ye feel your Honor grip,
Let that ay be your border:
Its slightest touches, instant pause—
Debar a’ side-pretences;
And resolutely keep its laws,
Uncaring consequences.
The great CREATOR to revere,
Must sure become the Creature;
But still the preaching cant forbear,
And ev’n the rigid feature:
Yet ne’er with Wits prophane to range,
Be complaisance extended;
An atheist-laugh’s a poor exchange
For Deity offended!
When ranting round in Pleasure’s ring,
Religion may be blinded;
Or if she gie a random-fling,
It may be little minded;
But when on Life we’re tempest-driven,
A Conscience but a canker—
A correspondence fix’d wi’ Heav’n,
Is sure a noble anchor!
Adieu, dear, amiable Youth!
Your heart can ne’er be wanting!
May Prudence, Fortitude and Truth
Erect your brow undaunting!
In ploughman phrase, ‘GOD send you speed,’
Still daily to grow wiser;
And may ye better reck the rede,
Then ever did th’ Adviser!
The great night for me in Ayrshire was never Christmas Eve or midsummer, but Halloween, when some sort of folk essence seemed to cling to the cold air. I loved the gathering of nuts and apples door to door, the occasional coins and sweets, while news of immortal bogles and witches travelled abroad in the streets and parks. My mother was very gifted at making costumes, and two of our neighbours, Hazel and Sandy Copeland, who came from the Highlands, threw everything they had into Halloween. At their house we ‘dooked’ for apples in basins of water and covered our faces in treacle as we tried to take bites from dripping scones that hung on strings from the ceiling. There was always a sense of the warm, excited interior and the frozen world outside, resplendent that night with its dark certainties about the life after death.
The following Poem will, by many Readers, be well enough understood; but, for the sake of those who are unacquainted with the manners and traditions of the country where the scene is cast, Notes are added, to give some account of the principal Charms and Spells of that Night, so big with Prophecy to the Peasantry in the West of Scotland. The passion of prying into Futurity makes a striking part of the history of Human–nature, in its rude state, in all ages and nations; and it may be some entertainment to a philosophic mind, if any such should honor the Author with a perusal, to see the remains of it, among the more unenlightened in our own.
Halloween
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Yes! let the Rich deride, the Proud disdain,
The simple pleasures of the lowly train;
To me more dear, congenial to my heart,
One native charm, than all the gloss of art.
Goldsmith
Upon that night, when Fairies light,
On Cassilis Downans
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dance,
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze,
On sprightly coursers prance;
Or for Colean, the rout is taen,
Beneath the moon
’s pale beams;
There, up the Cove,
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to stray an’ rove,
Amang the rocks an’ streams
To sport that night.
Amang the bonie, winding banks,
Where Doon rins, wimplin, clear,
Where BRUCE
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ance rul’d the martial ranks,
An’ shook his Carrick spear,
Some merry, friendly, countra folks,
Together did convene,
To burn their nits, an’ pou their stocks,
An’ haud their Halloween
Fu’ blythe that night.
The lasses feat, an’ cleanly neat,
Mair braw than when they’re fine;
Their faces blythe, fu’ sweetly kythe,
Hearts leal, an’ warm, an’ kin’:
The lads sae trig, wi’ wooer-babs,
Weel knotted on their garten,
Some unco blate, an’ some wi’ gabs,
Gar lasses hearts gang startin
Whyles fast at night.
Then, first an’ foremost, thro’ the kail,
Their stocks
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maun a’ be sought ance;
They steek their een, an’ grape an’ wale,
For muckle anes, an’ straught anes.
Poor hav’rel Will fell aff the drift,
An’ wander’d thro’ the Bow-kail,
An’ pow’t, for want o’ better shift,
A runt was like a sow-tail
Sae bow’t that night.
Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane,
They roar an’ cry a’ throw’ther;
The vera wee-things, toddlan, rin,
Wi’ stocks out owre their shouther:
An’ gif the custock’s sweet or sour,
Wi’ joctelegs they taste them;
Syne coziely, aboon the door,
Wi’ cannie care, they’ve plac’d them
To lye that night.
The lasses staw frae ’mang them a’,
To pou their stalks o’ corn;
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But Rab slips out, an’ jinks about,
Behint the muckle thorn:
He grippet Nelly hard an’ fast;
Loud skirl’d a’ the lasses;
But her tap-pickle maist was lost,
Whan kiutlan in the Fause-house
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Wi’ him that night.
The auld Guidwife’s weel-hoordet nits
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Are round an’ round divided,
An’ monie lads an’ lasses fates
Are there that night decided:
Some kindle, couthie, side by side,
An’ burn thegither trimly;
Some start awa, wi’ saucy pride,
An’ jump out owre the chimlie
Fu’ high that night.
Jean slips in twa, wi’ tentie e’e;
Wha ’twas, she wadna tell;
But this is Jock, an’ this is me,
She says in to hersel:
He bleez’d owre her, an’ she owre him,
As they wad never mair part,
Till fuff! he started up the lum,
An’ Jean had e’en a sair heart
To see’t that night.
Poor Willie, wi’ his bow-kail runt,
Was brunt wi’ primsie Mallie;
An’ Mary, nae doubt, took the drunt,
To be compar’d to Willie:
Mall’s nit lap out, wi’ pridefu’ fling,
An’ her ain fit, it brunt it;
While Willie lap, an’ swoor by jing,
’Twas just the way he wanted
To be that night.
Nell had the Fause-house in her min’,
She pits hersel an’ Rob in;
In loving bleeze they sweetly join,
Till white in ase they’re sobbin:
Nell’s heart was dancin at the view;
She whisper’d Rob to leuk for’t;
Rob, stownlins, prie’d her bonie mou,
Fu’ cozie in the neuk for’t,
Unseen that night.
But Merran sat behint their backs,
Her thoughts on Andrew Bell;
She lea’es them gashan at their cracks,
An’ slips out by hersel:
She thro’ the yard the nearest taks,
An’ for the kiln she goes then,
An’ darklins grapet for the bauks,
And in the blue-clue
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throws then,
Right fear’t that night.
An’ ay she win’t, an’ ay she swat,
I wat she made nae jaukin;
Till something held within the pat,
Good Lord! but she was quaukin!
But whether ’twas the Deil himsel,
Or whether ’twas a bauk-en’,
Or whether it was Andrew Bell,
She did na wait on talkin
To spier that night.
Wee Jenny to her Graunie says,
‘Will ye go wi’ me Graunie?
I’ll eat the apple at the glass,
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I gat frae uncle Johnie:’
She fuff’t her pipe wi’ sic a lunt,
In wrath she was sae vap’rin,
She notic’t na, an aizle brunt
Her braw, new, worset apron
Out thro’ that night.
‘Ye little Skelpie-limmer’s-face!
I daur you try sic sportin,
As seek the foul Thief onie place,
For him to spae your fortune:
Nae doubt but ye may get a sight!
Great cause ye hae to fear it;
For monie a ane has gotten a fright,
An’ liv’d an’ di’d deleeret,
On sic a night.
‘Ae Hairst afore the Sherra-moor,
I mind’t as weel’s yestreen,
I was a gilpey then, I’m sure,
I was na past fyfteen:
The Simmer had been cauld an’ wat,
An’ Stuff was unco green;
An’ ay a rantan Kirn we gat,
An’ just on Halloween
It fell that night.
‘Our Stibble-rig was Rab M‘Graen,
A clever, sturdy fallow;
His Sin gat Eppie Sim wi’ wean,
That liv’d in Achmacalla:
He gat hemp-seed,
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I mind it weel,
An’ he made unco light o’t;
But monie a day was by himsel,