Dakota Beacon

Today would be the 261st birthday of the Scottish poet, Robert Burns.  It seems unlikely that a man who was born into a difficult life as the eldest son of a crofter (small farmer) in 1759 in the lowlands of Scotland, Ayrshire should 261 years later still be celebrated around the world by rich and poor, working class men and women as well as scholars.  Throughout his difficult and hard-working life, Burns continued to write poetry. He wrote of great things - patriotism, the brotherhood of man, of man and God, of lovely ladies, of the foibles to which all mankind is subject - often of pride.  He also wrote of field mice, of fleas, of daisies, of his favorite sheep, "Maillie", of dogs, of the lowly as well as the "high and mighty".   He was controversial in his own time. Today he is remembered around the world for his remarkable contribution.

Burns had a deep understanding and also a deep questioning.  He had the capacity to see the plight of mankind upon the occasion of upturning the nest of a little field mouse, much like the way one might see the whole of the world through a crystalline drop of water.  You have probably quoted part of this poem. Few realize who wrote the words they speak. This happens a lot with Burns.  Of course a prominent feature of Burns' writing is that he wrote in the language of lowland Scotland - Doric, or Scots.  Don't let it put you off.  It takes a little getting used to but it is suprisingly easy once you begin to hear it.

To a Field Mouse

On Turning her up in her Nest, with the Plough, November 1785.

Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim’rous beastie,

O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!

Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

       Wi’ bickerin brattle!

I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee

       Wi’ murd’ring pattle!

I’m truly sorry Man’s dominion

Has broken Nature’s social union,

An’ justifies that ill opinion,

       Which makes thee startle,

At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,

       An’ fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;

What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!

A daimen-icker in a thrave

       ’S a sma’ request:

I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave,

       An’ never miss ’t!

Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!

It’s silly wa’s the win’s are strewin!

An’ naething, now, to big a new ane,

       O’ foggage green!

An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin,

       Baith snell an’ keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,

An’ weary Winter comin fast,

An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,

       Thou thought to dwell,

Till crash! the cruel coulter past

       Out thro’ thy cell.

That wee-bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble

Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!

Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble,

       But house or hald,

To thole the Winter’s sleety dribble,

       An’ cranreuch cauld!

But Mousie, thou art no thy-lane,

In proving foresight may be vain:

The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men

       Gang aft agley,

An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,

       For promis’d joy!

Still, thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me!

The present only toucheth thee:

But Och! I backward cast my e’e,

       On prospects drear!

An’ forward tho’ I canna see,

       I guess an’ fear!

He understood the human heart, the yearnings of all mankind, their tragedies and their humour.  Around the world he will be celebrated tonight. This is no exaggeration. People sing his songs and read his poetry in Japan, in Russia, in Minnesota, in Canada, in South America.  Indeed, there are few parts of the world in which Burns is not a presence even in our current era. No writer, neither novelist, philosopher, playwright or poet, however great he may be, however magnificent his accomplishment, comes even close to the universal love of Robert Burns.  In a popular survey in Scotland not long ago, Burns narrowly beat William Wallace to win the title, “Greatest Scotsman”.

Burns' most famous song is undoubtedly "Auld Lang Syne".  It is usually sung to an old Scots melody that we know, although it has sometimes been sung to an alternative tune.  It is really so universal that it deserves a note of its own here.  Below are links to an incredible variety of versions of this melody which is famous chiefly because of the original words set to it by Burns.  His words made the song immortal, so  even when translations are beyond "loose", it is because of Burns the song is sung.

https://www.hermann-sr.de/abschiedslied_-_auld_lang_syne.html

Robert Burns has been maligned by some.  He has been accused of abuse of drink. He has been blamed for his poverty.  The truth, however, was that Burns was a hard-working farmer, an innovator in animal husbandry, even a tax collector - and yet beloved.  This was in the time when to get a distance of twenty miles one had to ride in inclement weather, which in Scotland can be very inclement, indeed, on horseback.  And yet ride he did.  He wrote by firelight after he finished his day’s work, whether he was completing his reports to the government or birthing lambs or ploughing a field.  He was also accused of random paternity. Well, it was Scotland in the 18th Century. It happened. He married Jean Armour and they had nine children together. It is known that he had at least four children with others.  His last child with Jean Armour, Maxwell, was actually born on the day of his funeral. It is difficult to imagine the volume of his literary works, always concurrent with other “day jobs” (my friend Les Archibald said, “I don’t know how the man found the time to write!”), and the quality of that work, when we stop and think that Burns died at the tragically early age of 37, believed to have resulted from rheumatic heart disease.  He had suffered rheumatic fever and yet had been working on the farm from the age of 7, and by age 14 was fully engaged in a life of hard physical work which never let up for him.  

Although honored in death, his last years were difficult.  His sympathies with the American and later the French revolution alienated many, his financial reverses and his failing health created terrible stresses.  Here follows a bit of a biographical sketch:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e6yGVYhVM1g

If possible, get yourself some haggis, tatties, nips and neeps and dainties tonight, sing a Burns song or recite a Burns poem.  And raise a glass to the Immortal Memory.

Some Burns songs:

Ye Banks an’ Braes o’ Bonnie Doon:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vit3gz9daQI

Green Grow the Rashes, O

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2ceQvLX24SE

Ae Fond Kiss:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_fsFZeGAR54

And in Norwegian:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FTNB9Eid9Jk

Auld Lang Syne - many flavors:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JWG04VesPd0

And again - 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=US3hkyKZSgY

And again - 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_2Y5OZ1Ro40

French:

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