The Canongate Burns

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by Robert Burns


  35 His gawsie tail, wi’ upward curl, fine/full

  Hung owre his hurdies wi’ a swirl. over, buttocks

  Nae doubt but they were fain o’ ither, no, fond of each other

  And unco pack an’ thick thegither; kept secrets/confidential

  Wi’ social nose whyles snuff’d an’ snowcket; whiles, sniffed

  40 Whyles mice an’ moudiewurks they howcket; whiles, moles, dug for

  Whyles scour’d awa’ in lang excursion, whiles, long

  An’ worry’d ither in diversion;

  Till tir’d at last wi’ monie a farce, many

  They sat them down upon their arse,

  45 An’ there began a lang digression long

  About the lords o’ the creation.

  CAESAR

  I’ve aften wonder’d, honest Luath, often

  What sort o’ life poor dogs like you have;

  An’ when the gentry’s life I saw,

  50 What way poor bodies liv’d ava. at all

  Our Laird gets in his racked rents, extortionate

  His coals, his kane, an’ a’ his stents: payments in kind, dues

  He rises when he likes himsel;

  His flunkies answer at the bell; servants

  55 He ca’s his coach; he ca’s his horse; calls

  He draws a bonie, silken purse, carries

  As lang’s my tail, whare thro’ the steeks, long as, where, stiches

  The yellow, letter’d Geordie keeks. guinea (King’s head) peeps

  Frae morn to een it’s nought but toiling, from, evening, nothing

  60 At baking, roasting, frying, boiling;

  An’ tho’ the gentry first are steghan, cramming

  Yet ev’n the ha’ folk fill their peghan hall (servants), stomach

  Wi’ sauce, ragouts, an sic like trashtrie, such like rubbish

  That’s little short o’ downright wastrie: wastage

  65 Our Whipper-in, wee, blastit wonner, small, blasted wonder

  Poor, worthless elf, it eats a dinner,

  Better than onie Tenant-man any

  His Honor has in a’ the lan’: all the land

  An’ what poor Cot-folk pit their painch in, put, paunch

  70 I own it’s past my comprehension.

  LUATH

  Trowth, Caesar, whyles they’re fash’d eneugh: sometimes, bothered

  A Cotter howckan in a sheugh, farm labourer, digging, ditch

  Wi’ dirty stanes biggan a dyke, stones, building, stone wall

  Bairan a quarry, an’ sic like, clearing, such

  75 Himsel, a wife, he thus sustains,

  A smytrie o’ wee duddie weans, number, small ragged children

  An’ nought but his han’-daurk, to keep hands’ work

  Them right an’ tight in thack an’ raep. snug, thatch, rope

  An’ when they meet wi’ sair disasters, sore

  80 Like loss o’ health or want o’ masters,

  Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer, most would, longer

  An’ they maun starve o’ cauld and hunger: should, cold

  But how it comes, I never kend yet, knew

  They’re maistly wonderfu’ contented; mostly

  85 An’ buirdly chiels, an’ clever hizzies, stout lads, girls

  Are bred in sic a way as this is. such

  CAESAR

  But then to see how ye’re neglecket, neglected

  How huff’d, an’ cuff’d, an’ disrespecket! scolded, slapped, disrespected

  Lord man, our gentry care as little

  90 For delvers, ditchers, an’ sic cattle; labourers, diggers, such

  They gang as saucy by poor folk, go, smugly

  As I wad by a stinkan brock. would, badger

  I’ve notic’d, on our Laird’s court-day,2

  (An’ monie a time my heart’s been wae), many, sad

  95 Poor tenant bodies, scant o’ cash, short of money

  How they maun thole a Factor’s snash:3 would suffer, abuse

  He’ll stamp an’ threaten, curse an’ swear

  He’ll apprehend them, poind their gear; seize & sell their goods

  While they maun staun’, wi’ aspect humble, must stand

  100 An’ hear it a’, an’ fear an’ tremble! all

  I see how folk live that hae riches; have

  But surely poor-folk maun be wretches! must

  LUATH

  They’re nae sae wretched’s ane wad think: not so, as one would

  Tho’ constantly on poortith’s brink, poverty’s

  105 They’re sae accustom’d wi’ the sight, so

  The view o’t gies them little fright. gives

  Then chance an’ fortune are sae guided, so

  They’re ay in less or mair provided; always, more

  An’ tho’ fatigu’d wi’ close employment,

  110 A blink o’ rest’s a sweet enjoyment.

  The dearest comfort o’ their lives,

  Their grushie weans an’ faithfu’ wives; thriving children

  The prattling things are just their pride,

  That sweetens a’ their fire-side.

  115 An’ whyles twalpennie worth o’ nappy sometimes, ale

  Can mak the bodies unco happy: folk, very

  They lay aside their private cares,

  To mind the Kirk an’ State affairs;

  They’ll talk o’ patronage an’ priests,

  120 Wi’ kindling fury i’ their breasts,

  Or tell what new taxation’s comin,

  An’ ferlie at the folk in LON’ON. wonder

  As bleak-fac’d Hallowmass returns, festival of All-Saints

  They get the jovial, rantan Kirns, harvest homes

  125 When rural life, of ev’ry station,

  Unite in common recreation;

  Love blinks, Wit slaps, an’ social Mirth

  Forgets there’s Care upo’ the earth.

  That merry day the year begins,

  130 They bar the door on frosty win’s; winds

  The nappy reeks wi’ mantling ream, ale, foaming froth

  An’ sheds a heart-inspiring steam;

  The luntan pipe, an’ sneeshin mill, smoking, snuff box

  Are handed round wi’ right guid will; good

  135 The cantie, auld folks, crackan crouse, jolly old, chatting, cheerful

  The young anes rantan thro’ the house — one, running

  My heart has been sae fain to see them, so content

  That I for joy hae barket wi’ them. have barked

  Still it’s owre true that ye hae said over, have

  140 Sic game is now owre aften play’d; such a, over often

  There’s monie a creditable stock many

  O’ decent, honest, fawsont folk, respectable

  Are riven out baith root an’ branch, thrown out by force, both

  Some rascal’s pridefu’ greed to quench,

  145 Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster who

  In favor wi’ some gentle Master,

  Wha, aiblins thrang a parliamentin’, who, maybe crowd

  For Britain’s guid his saul indentin’ — good, soul engaged

  CAESAR

  Haith, lad, ye little ken about it: an exclamation, know

  150 For Britain’s guid! guid faith! I doubt it. good

  Say rather, gaun as PREMIERS lead him: go

  An’ saying aye or no ’s they bid him:

  At Operas an’ Plays parading,

  Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading:

  155 Or maybe, in a frolic daft,

  To HAGUE or CALAIS takes a waft,

  To mak a tour an’ tak a whirl,

  To learn bon ton, an’ see the worl’. Fr. good breeding

  There, at VIENNA or VERSAILLES,

  160 He rives his father’s auld entails; splits, old

  Or by MADRID he taks the rout, road

  To thrum guittarres an’ fecht wi’ nowt; strum, guitars, fight with cattle

  Or down Italian Vista startles, courses


  Whore-hunting amang groves o’ myrtles: among

  165 Then bowses drumlie German-water, drinks muddy

  To mak himsel look fair an’ fatter,

  An’ clear the consequential sorrows,

  Love-gifts of Carnival Signioras.

  for britain’s guid! for her destruction!

  170 Wi’ dissipation, feud an’ faction!

  LUATH

  Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate way

  They waste sae monie a braw estate! so many

  Are we sae foughten an’ harass’d so troubled

  For gear ta gang that gate at last! wealth to go

  175 O would they stay aback frae courts, away from

  An’ please themsels wi’ countra sports, country

  It wad for ev’ry ane be better, would, every one

  The Laird, the Tenant, an’ the Cotter!

  For thae frank, rantan, ramblan billies, those, lads

  180 Fient haet o’ them’s ill-hearted fellows; few of them are

  Except for breakin o’ their timmer, timber

  Or speakin lightly o’ their Limmer, mistress

  Or shootin of a hare or moor-cock,

  The ne’era-bit they’re ill to poor folk.

  185 But will ye tell me, master Caesar,

  Sure great folk’s life’s a life o’ pleasure?

  Nae cauld nor hunger e’er can steer them, no cold, touch

  The vera thought o’t need na fear them. very, not

  CAESAR

  Lord, man, were ye but whyles whare I am, whiles where

  190 The Gentles, ye wad ne’er envy them! would

  It’s true, they need na starve or sweat, not

  Thro’ Winter’s cauld, or Simmer’s heat; cold, summer’s

  They’ve nae sair-wark to craze their banes, no sore work, bones

  An’ fill auld-age wi’ grips an’ granes: old-age, gripes & groans

  195 But human bodies are sic fools, such

  For a’ their Colledges an’ Schools,

  That when nae real ills perplex them, no

  They mak enow themsels to vex them;

  An’ ay the less they hae to sturt them, always, have, fret

  200 In like proportion, less will hurt them.

  A countra fellow at the pleugh, country, plough

  His acre’s till’d, he’s right eneugh; well enough

  A countra girl at her wheel, country

  Her dizzen’s done, she’s unco weel; dozens (yarn), very well

  205 But Gentlemen, an’ Ladies warst,

  Wi’ ev’n down want o’ wark they’re curst: work

  They loiter, lounging, lank an’ lazy;

  Tho’ deil-haet ails them, yet uneasy: nothing

  Their days insipid, dull an’ tasteless;

  210 Their nights unquiet, lang an’ restless. long

  An’ ev’n their sports, their balls an’ races,

  Their galloping thro’ public places,

  There’s sic parade, sic pomp an’ art, such

  The joy can scarcely reach the heart.

  215 The Men cast out in party-matches, compete

  Then sowther a’ in deep debauches; patch up

  Ae night they’re mad wi’ drink an’ whoring, one

  Niest day their life is past enduring. next

  The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,

  220 As great an’ gracious a’ as sisters; all

  But hear their absent thoughts o’ ither,

  They’re a’ run deils an’ jads thegither. downright, together

  Whyles, owre the wee bit cup an’ platie, whiles, over, plate

  They sip the scandal-potion pretty;

  225 Or lee-lang nights, wi’ crabbet leuks live-long, bad tempered looks

  Pore owre the devil’s pictur’d beuks; over, books (playing cards)

  Stake on a chance a farmer’s stackyard,

  An’ cheat like onie unhang’d blackguard. any, villain

  There’s some exceptions, man an’ woman;

  230 But this is Gentry’s life in common.

  By this, the sun was out o’ sight,

  An’ darker gloamin brought the night; fading twilight

  The bum-clock humm’d wi’ lazy drone; beetle

  The kye stood rowtin i’ the loan; cattle, lowing, field

  235 When up they gat, an’ shook their lugs, got, ears

  Rejoic’d they were na men, but dogs; not

  An’ each took aff his several way, went his different

  Resolv’d to meet some ither day. other

  Burns lived with animals, wild and domestic, in conditions of intimacy which few of us in this twenty-first century can easily appreciate. This poem, as much of his poetry, is filled with an empathetic, hence, detailed knowledge of them. The collie and the Newfoundland are sportively present to us. Throughout his writing there are also frequent, often obliquely political analogies, made between the lots of animals and men.

  The genesis of this poem was his own collie, Luath, who, his brother tells us, was ‘killed by some wanton cruelty of some person the night before my father’s death’. This extraordinary witty, seminal poem is the result of his original intention to write, for the sinisterly murdered Luath, Stanzas to the Memory of a Quad- ruped Friend (Currie, Vol. 3, p. 386).

  His wholly deliberate choice of opening The Kilmarnock edition with this particular poem is mockingly ironic. In that volume, he had no sooner come on stage with his highly successful self- promoting prose remarks about his poetic ploughman’s pastoral naïvety, than he immediately delivers a poetic performance of not only formidable linguistic and double-voiced dramatic subtlety but one which is eruditely allusive to earlier Scottish and English poetry. Indeed, it would be, as in ll. 26–28, an extremely odd ploughman who would not only name his dog from a character in Macpherson’s Ossian but also allude to that simmering controversy. Also both the octosyllabic verse and the dialogue form are derived from his beloved predecessor, Robert Fergusson’s The Mutual Complaint of Plainstanes and Causey, in their Mother Tongue.

  While the poem formally and linguistically is not indebted to English poetry, the content certainly is. As William Empson (Some Versions of Pastoral, 1935) and Raymond Williams (The City and Country, 1975) have revealed, English poetry from the sixteenth century had been preoccupied with the nature and representation of country life as a reflection of the quarrel between largely conservative poets and their aristocratic patrons due to the disruptive evolution in the life of the common people caused by the accelerating participation by the aristocratic master class in agrarian capitalism. The greatest statement of this theme, as we shall see Burns demonstrably knew in his own A Winter’s Night, is Shakespeare’s King Lear. The consistently cogent McGuirk in discussing this poem locates its tap-roots in Augustan convention, especially Pope’s Moral Epistles. Burns also had, of course, the endorsement of his views from contemporary sources such as Goldsmith, particularly The Deserted Village. Although they diverged totally about the role of the monarchy, Burns and Goldsmith were also part of that rising late eighteenth-century tide of patriotic feeling about the ‘Frenchified’ degeneration of the British aristocracy as increasingly they squandered their ill-gotten agrarian rents in European fleshpots. (See Gerald Newman, The Rise of English Nationalism, London, 1987.) Hence that quite wonderfully sophisticated section, comparable to anything in Augustan satire, from ll. 149–170 where Caesar describes into what The Grand Tour has degenerated. This brilliantly echoes Fergusson’s pronouncedly anti-aristocratic lines from Hame Content:

  Some daft chiel reads, and takes advice

  The chaise is yokit in a trice;

  Awa drives he like huntit deil,

  And scarce tholes time to cool his wheel,

  Till he’s Lord ken how far awa,

  At Italy, or Well o’ Spaw,

  Or to Montpelier’s safer air;

  For far off fowls hae feathers fair.

  There rest him weel; for eith can we


  Spare mony glakit gouks like he;

  They’ll tell whare Tibur’s water’s rise;

  What sea receives the drumly prize,

  That never wi’ their feet hae mett

  The marches o’ their ain estate.

  Stimulated by Fergusson, then, this dramatic dialogue, domesti- cates in the Scottish vernacular this great English poetic quarrel with a rapacious land-owning class. What further intensified this in Burns is that from childhood he had been exposed to both brutal- ising toil and chronic economic anxiety. Ll. 95–100 do, in fact, seem to refer to actual events on the family farm at Lochlea of which he wrote: ‘my indignation yet boils at the recollection of the scoundrel tyrant’s insolent threatening epistles which he used to set us all in tears’ (Letter 137). As Burns’s subsequent poetry reveals, this early trauma about debt, bankruptcy and possible homelessness was to be a subject of inflammatory repetition. Also, as much of his later poetry, the poem is filled with telling detail about the harsh, exposed, exhausting nature of farm work in the late eighteenth century as opposed to the pampered sloth of the aristocracy. Indeed, as in ll. 89–90, such brutal work leads to a Swiftian vision of the bestialisation of the common people: ‘Lord man, our gentry care as little/For delvers, ditchers and sic cattle’.

  Burns’s strategy in the poem of course is to create through the dogs a kind of comic brio, which, at a primary level, disguises the poem’s incisive documentation and its anti-establishment values. Further, he does not do the ideologically obvious thing by creating an oppositional dialogue between the people’s collie and the master’s newly fashionable Newfoundland. Caesar is not so much a traitor to his class as a natural democrat who will put his nose anywhere as a possible prelude to even more intimate entangle- ments. It is he who really spills the beans about the condition of the working people and the lifestyle of their masters. In Luath’s speeches, especially ll. 103–38, we find the roots of Burns’s vision of the nobility of the common people which is to recur throughout his poetry though, at times, especially in ‘The Cotter’s Saturday Night’, somewhat questionably.

 

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