MR. ROBERT BURNS, THE POET.
One thing that struck me very forcibly before I had been in Glasgow any
length of time was the fact that the people thought a great deal of Mr.
Burns, the poet. Streets and lanes were named after him, inns and
taverns, shoes, hats, caps, clothing, tobacco, bum-looking cigars, bad
whiskey, in fact his name was attached to all kinds of articles to make
them sell, and in some cases merely as a mark of respect or affection.
It was plain to the most casual observer that Mr. Burns was thought a
great deal of. He had been dead a hundred years or more, yet his
personality pervaded the place, and his picture was to be seen on signs,
posters, in the stores and elsewhere. For Mr. Burns most Scotchmen will
die, Scotch ladies sigh, Scotch babies cry, Scotch dogs ki-yi. He was a
good-looking chap, and highly gifted, but the poor fellow died before he
had reached his thirty-eighth year, which was a national calamity. Had
he lived there is no telling what he might have accomplished, for during
the short span of his life he did wonderful things. He took the old
Scotch songs that had been written before his day and gave them a twist
of his own which improved them vastly, and made them immortal; he
portrayed Scottish life in a way that no poet has ever imitated or will
imitate maybe, and he loved his country deeply and fervently. His father
was a rancher, and a poverty-stricken one at that, and the poet was born
in a shack on the farm. The house was a little old one of stone, and a
rich man of the day would have used it for a chicken house. In this
house and in a china closet in the kitchen was born the greatest poet
Scotland ever produced. When Bobbie grew up the old man set him
a-plowing, and while at this work the boy composed rhymes which were so
good that some of his friends induced him to print them. Old man Burns
didn't see any good in the verses, for he knew more about poultry than
he did about poetry, and told his son to cut it out. Bobbie couldn't,
for it just came natural.
Before he was twenty-one the boy had written lots of good poetry and it
was put in book form and printed at Kilmarnock, a town not far from his
birthplace. The birthplace of the poet was on the farm near the town of
Ayr, in Ayrshire, and that whole county (or shire) is now called "The
Burns Country," because it was the poet's stamping-ground. The poet knew
lots of people throughout the county and his writings have immortalized
many a place in it. After his book had been printed he sprang into fame
at once and was made much of by man, woman and child. Being a
good-looking chap, the girls began to run after him, and poor Burnsie
had the time of his life. He wanted to steer clear of 'em, but he
couldn't, for the girls liked and admired him too much. The result was
that a few of them got into trouble, and soon some wild-eyed fathers and
brothers went gunning for him. The fault was not the poet's wholly, for
he couldn't have kept these girls away from him with a cannon. To avoid
such troubles in the future he finally married a blond, buxom young
lassie called Jean Armour, by whom he had twins, the first rattle out of
the box. Not long after that he had two at a throw again. Bobbie could
do something besides write poetry, evidently. He was a thoroughbred any
way you took him, though the people at that time did not know it and did
not fully appreciate his great qualities. It was only after he had been
dead a long time that the world fully realized his worth. At the present
day they estimate him properly and their affection and reverence for him
are boundless. Some of his countrymen call him simply Burns, others call
him Rabbie, and still others, "puir Rabbie," puir meaning poor.
The country that he lived in, Ayrshire, is visited by a million
strangers or more every year, who visit the shack he was born in and the
places he made immortal by his writings. The shack has been fixed up and
improved somewhat since he lived in it, and is now a sort of museum
where are displayed various editions of the books, manuscripts and
other things, that once were his. Among the things is a walking-cane
that a New York lawyer named Kennedy somehow got hold of. How Kennedy
got the cane I don't know, but he returned it to the Burns collection in
the cottage. Mr. Kennedy is a rare exception to New York lawyers in
general, for they rarely return anything that they once get their hands
on. Mr. Kennedy must have had a whole lot of regard for the great poet.
Lots of people have never read any of Burns' poems. I wonder would they
appreciate it if I showed them a few samples? I will not print the long
ones, but only the shorter ones, for even they will show, I am sure, the
greatness of "Puir Rabbie."
As I said in a previous chapter, when I first set foot in Scotland it
was at Greenock, about 25 miles from Glasgow, where a tender took us
ashore from the Furnessia. Greenock is quite a city, for it contains a
good many factories and other establishments, but the city has become
famous the world over just because of one little circumstance connected
with the great poet, namely: A young girl named Highland Mary lived
there who loved, and was beloved by the poet, and they were engaged to
be married. Sad to relate, the young girl died while she was engaged to
the poet, which saddened him considerably. Years afterward he married
Jean Armour. The poet wrote some lines to the memory of Highland Mary
which almost any Scotchman or Scotch lady can recite by heart. Here they
are:
HIGHLAND MARY.
Ye banks and braes and streams around
The Castle o' Montgomery,
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie;
There Summer first unfauld her robes,
And there the langest tarry;
For there I took the last farewell
O' my sweet Highland Mary.
How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk
How rich the hawthorn's blossom!
As, underneath their fragrant shade
I clasped her to my bosom!
The golden hours, on angels' wings
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me as light and life
Was my sweet Highland Mary.
Wi' mony a vow and locked embrace
Our parting was fu' tender;
And pledging oft to meet again
We tore oursels asunder;
But, O! fell Death's untimely frost,
That nipt my flower sae early!
Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay
That wraps my Highland Mary.
O pale, pale now those rosy lips
I oft ha'e kissed sae fondly!
And closed for aye the sparkling glance,
That dwelt on me sae kindly!
And mouldering now in silent dust
That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary.
Was there anything ever written more sad, pathetic and sweet?
Following is a little poem written in a different vein which may serve
as a sort of temperance lesson to some husbands who stay out late at
night having a good time. The recreant husband's name in the poem is Mr.
Jo, and Mrs. Jo sends it in to him good and hard. Says Mr. Jo:
O let me in this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night;
For pity's sake this ae night,
O rise and let me in, Jo!
Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet;
Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet.
Tak' pity on my weary feet,
And shield me frae the rain, Jo.
The bitter blast that 'round me blaws
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's;
The cauldness o' thine heart's the cause
Of a' my grief and pain, Jo.
O let me in this ae, ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night;
For pity's sake this ae night
O rise and let me in, Jo.
Mr. Jo's pleadings were in vain, to judge from Mrs. Jo's answer, which
is as follows:
O tell na me o' wind and rain!
Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain!
Gae back the gate ye came again--
I winna let you in, Jo.
I haven't the least idea where Jo spent the night, but it surely wasn't
with Mrs. Jo. There are lots of husbands who get full and don't know
when to go home. Let them paste this poem in their hats. It may do them
good.
Here is an old song revised by Puir Rabbie, whose magic touch has made
it better and more famous than it ever was before. It is entitled: "Will
ye go to the Highlands, Leezie Lindsay?"
Will ye go to the Hielands, Leezie Lindsay,
Will ye go to the Hielands wi' me?
Will ye go to the Hielands, Leezie Lindsay,
My pride and my darling to be?
To gang to the Hielands wi' you, sir,
I dinna ken how that may be;
For I ken na the land that ye live in,
Nor ken I the lad I'm gaun wi'.
O Leezie, lass, ye maun ken little,
If sae that ye dinna ken me;
My name is Lord Ronald McDonald,
A chieftain o' high degree.
She has kilted her coats o' green satin,
She has kilted them up to the knee;
And she's off wi' Lord Ronald McDonald
His bride and his darling to be.
A whole lot of human nature about this little poem and a fine swing to
it. Burns had a touch that no one has ever imitated or ever can imitate.
It is a twist, which for want of a better name, I would call "a French
Twist." Imitate it, ye who can!
Everyone knows "Auld Lang Syne." It is an old song that didn't amount to
much until Burns got a hold of it and put his twist to it. Here it is:
AULD LANG SYNE.
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to min'?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot
And days o' auld lang syne?
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
Well tak' a cup o' kindness yet
For auld lang syne.
We twa ha'e run about the braes
And pu'd the gowans fine;
But we've wandered many a weary foot
Sin' auld lang syne;
We two ha'e paid'lt i' the burn
Frae mornin' sun till dine;
But seas between us braid ha'e roar'd
Sin auld lang syne.
Chorus.
And here's a hand, my trusty fren,
And gie us a hand o' thine;
And we'll take a right good wallie-waught
For auld lang syne.
Chorus.
And surely ye'll be your pint stoup,
And surely I'll be mine;
And we'll take a cup o' kindness yet
For auld lang syne.
Following is a composition that is famous the world over and is used as
a recitation, not only in this country but in every other
English-speaking country. It is entitled: "Bruce at Bannockburn":
BRUCE AT BANNOCKBURN.
Scots, wha ha'e wi' Wallace bled;
Scots, whom Bruce has often led;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to glorious victorie!
Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front o' battle lower;
See approach proud Edward's power--
Edward! chains and slaverie!
Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Traitor! Coward! turn and flee.
Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Freemen stand or freemen fa',
Caledonian! on wi' me!
By oppression's woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall--they shall be free!
Lay the proud usurper low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!
Forward! Let us do or die.
Here is a love song to Jennie, entitled, "Come, Let Me Take Thee!"
COME, LET ME TAKE THEE.
Come, let me take thee to my breast
And pledge we ne'er shall sunder;
And I shall spurn as vilest dust
The world's wealth and grandeur;
And do I hear my Jennie own
That equal transports move her?
I ask for dearest life alone
That I may live to love her.
Thus in my arms, wi' a' thy charms,
I clasp my countless treasure;
I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to share
Than sic a moment's pleasure;
And by thy een sae bonnie blue
I swear I'm thine forever!
And on thy lips I seal my vow,
And break it I shall never.
One day Burns was called upon for a toast during a dinner which was
given by the Dumfries Volunteers, in honor of their anniversary. The
poet got up and spoke the following lines extempore:
Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast--
Here is the memory of those on the 12th that we lost!
That we lost, did I say; nay, by heaven, that we found;
For their fame it shall last while the world goes around.
The next in succession I'll give you--the King!
Whoe'er would betray him, on high may he swing!
And here's the grand fabric, our Free Constitution,
As built on the base of the great Revolution.
And longer with politics not to be crammed,
Be anarchy cursed and be tyranny damned;
And who would to Liberty e'er be disloyal,
May his son be a hangman and he his first trial.
A GRACE BEFORE MEAT.
Some ha'e meat and canna eat it,
And some wad eat that want it;
But we ha'e meat and we can eat,
And sae the Lord be thankit.
TO A HEN-PECKED COUNTRY SQUIRE.
As father Adam first was fooled,
A case that's still too common,
Here lies a man a woman ruled--
The devil ruled the woman.
The poet's father, William Burness, lies buried in a graveyard at
Alloway. The following lines were written by his son to his memory:
LINES TO HIS FATHER.
O ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains,
Draw near with pious reverence and attend.
Here lie the loving husband's dear remains,
The tender father and the generous friend.
The pitying heart that felt for human woe;
The dauntless heart that feared no human pride;
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe;
"For e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side."
I believe there are some husbands who grow tired of the married state
after they have been in it a while. They came to find out that it isn't
all "beer and skittles," as they first imagined it would be. Even "Puir
Rabbie" had troubles of his own, as the following will show, for it is
written about himself:
"Oh, that I had n'er been married!
I would never had nae care;
Now I've gotten wife and bairns,
And they cry crowdie ev'ry mair;
Ance crowdie, twice crowdie,
Three times crowdie in a day;
Gin ye crowdie ony mair,
Ye'll crowdie a' my meal away.
Waefu' want and hunger fley me,
Glowrin' by the hallan en';
Sair I fecht them at the door,
But aye I'm eerie the come ben."
The poet had lots of cronies and friends, and he was as loyal to some of
them as they were to him. He was a good boon companion and liked "a wee
drappie" (nip) himself as well as anyone. Many an alehouse proudly
proclaims that he visited it and preserves the chair or bench that he
sat on, the glass he drank out of or the table he sat at, to this day,
and any and every thing that is familiar with his presence is sacred and
treasured. William Muir of Tarbolton is the friend to whom the
following lines were written:
ON A FRIEND.
An honest man here lies at rest,
As e'er God with his image blest;
The friend of man, the friend of truth;
The friend of age, the guide of youth;
Few hearts like his with virtue warmed,
Few heads with knowledge so informed;
If there's another world, he lives in bliss;
If there is none he made the best of this.
Mr. John Dove kept an inn at Mauchline called the "Whiteford Arms," and
the poet pays his respects to him in the following fashion:
ON JOHN DOVE, INNKEEPER.
Here lies Johnny Pidgeon;
What was his religion?
Whae'er desires to ken,
To some other warl'
Maun follow the carl,
For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane.
Strong ale was ablution--
Small beer persecution--
A dram was momento mori;
But a full flowing bowl
Was the saving his soul,
And port was celestial glory.
To judge from the following, the poet did not have a great respect for
all ruling elders of the church. Souter Hood was a miserly one.
TO A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER.
Here Souter Hood in death doth sleep;
To hell, if he's gone thither;
Satan, gie him thy gear to keep,
He'll hand it weel thegither.
TO ANOTHER HEN-PECKED HUSBAND.
O Death, hadst thou but spared his life
Whom we this day lament,
We freely wad exchanged the wife
An' a' been weel content.
The poet was hospitably entertained at a place one day called for short
and sweet Dahna Cardoch. In appreciation he got off the following:
When death's dark stream I ferry o'er,
A time that surely shall come--
In heaven itself I'll ask no more
Than just a Highland Welcome.
One Sunday while in the northern part of Scotland with Nicol, a friend
of his, he visited the Carron Works which they had traveled some
distance to see. There was a sign on the gate: "No Admittance to
Strangers," which barred the poet and his friend. Here is an apostrophe
by Burns in regard to the matter:
NO ADMITTANCE TO STRANGERS.
We cam' na here to view your warks
In hopes to be mair wise,
But only, lest we gang to hell,
It may be nae surprise;
But when we tirled at your door,
Your porter dought na hear us;
Sae may, should we to hell's yetts come,
Your billy Satan serve us.
LORD GREGORY.
O, mirk, mirk is this midnight hour,
And loud the tempest roar;
A waeful wanderer seeks thy tower--
Lord Gregory, ope the door.
An exile frae her father's ha',
And a' for loving thee;
At least some pity on me show,
If love it may na be.
Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove
By bonnie Irwine side,
Where first I owned that virgin love
I lang, lang had denied!
How often didst thou pledge and vow
Thou wad for aye be mine;
And my fond heart, itself sae true,
It ne'er mistrusted thine.
Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory,
And flinty is thy breast--
Thou dart of heaven that flashed by,
O, wilt thou give me rest!
Ye mustering thunders from above,
Your willing victim see!
But spare and pardon my fause love
His wrangs to Heaven and me!
MARY MORISON.
O, Mary, at thy window be,
It is the wished, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see
That makes the miser's treasure poor.
How blithely wad I bide the stoure
A weary slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure--
The lovely Mary Morison.
Jestreen, when to the trembling string
The dance gaed through the lighted ha',
To thee my fancy took its wing--
I sat, but neither heard nor saw;
Though this was fair, and that was braw,
And you the toast of a' the town,
I sighed and said amang them a'
"Ye are na Mary Morison."
O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die;
Or canst thou break that heart of his
Whose only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gi'e
At least be pity to me shown,
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.
TO A LAIRD.
When ---- deceased to the devil went down
'Twas nothing would serve him but Satan's own crown;
Thy fool's head, quoth Satan, that crown shall wear never,
Grant thou'rt wicked but not quite so clever.
OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, O!
O, open the door some pity to show,
O, open the door to me, O!
Though thou has been fause, I'll ever prove true,
O, open the door to me, O!
Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek,
But caulder thy love for me, O!
The frost that freezes the life at my heart
Is naught to my pains frae thee, O!
The wan moon is setting behind the white wave,
And time is setting with me, O!
False friends, false love, farewell! for mair
I'll ne'er trouble them nor thee, O!
She has opened the door, she has opened it wide;
She sees his pale corse on the plain, O!
My true love! she cried, and sank down by his side
Never to rise again, O!
TO CARDONESS.
Bless the Redeemer, Cardoness,
With grateful lifted eyes;
Who said that not the soul alone
But body, too, must rise.
For had he said, "The soul alone
From death I shall deliver,"
Alas! alas! O Cardoness,
Then thou hadst slept forever.
YOUNG JESSIE.
True hearted was he, the said swain o' the Yarrow,
And fair are the maids on the banks o' the Ayr,
But by the sweet side of the Nith's winding river
Are lovers as faithful and maidens as fair;
To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over,
To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain;
Grace, beauty and elegance fetter her lover,
And maidenly modesty fixes the chain.
O, fresh is the rose in the gay dewy morning,
And sweet is the lily at evening close;
But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie
Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose.
Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring,
Enthroned in her een, he delivers his law;
And still to her charms she alone is a stranger,
Her modest demeanor's the jewel of a'.
DOWN THE BURN, DAVIE.
As down the burn they took their way
And thro' the flowery dale,
His cheek to hers he aft did lay,
And love was aye the tale.
"O, Mary, when shall we return
Sic pleasure to renew?"
Quoth Mary, "Love, I like the burn,
And aye shall follow you."
A BIT OF ADVICE.
Deluded swain, the pleasure
The fickle Fair can give thee
Is but a fairy treasure--
Thy hopes will soon deceive thee.
The billows on the ocean,
The breezes idly roaming,
The clouds' uncertain motion--
They are bu t types of women.
O! art thou not ashamed
To doat upon a feature?
If man thou wouldst be named,
Despise the silly creature.
Go, find an honest fellow--
Good claret set before thee--
Hold on till thou'rt mellow--
And then to bed in glory.
MY SPOUSE NANCY.
Husband, husband, cease your strife,
No longer idly rave, sir;
Though I am your wedded wife,
Yet I am not your slave, sir.
"One of two must still obey,
Nancy, Nancy;
Is it man or woman, say?
My spouse Nancy!"
"If it is still the lordly word,
Service and obedience;
I'll desert my sovereign lord--
And so, good by, allegiance!"
"Sad will I be, so bereft;
Nancy, Nancy!
Yet I'll try to make a shift,
My spouse Nancy!"
"My poor heart, then break it must,
My last hour I am near it;
When you lay me in the dust,
Think, think how you will bear it."
O, CAN YE SEW CUSHIONS?
O, can ye sew cushions and can ye sew sheets,
And can ye sing bal-lu-loo when the bairn greets?
And hee and baw birdie, and hee and baw lamb!
And hee and baw birdie, my bonnie wee lamb!
Hee, O, wee! O, what would I do wi' you;
Black is the life that I lead wi' you!
Money o' you--little for to gie you!
Hee, O, wee! O, what would I do wi' you?
WOMAN, COMPLAIN NOT!
Let not woman e'er complain
Of inconstancy in love;
Let not woman e'er complain
Fickle man is apt to rove.
Look abroad through Nature's range--
Nature's mighty law is change;
Ladies, would it not be strange,
Man should then a monster prove?
Mark the winds and mark the skies,
Ocean's ebb and ocean's flow;
Sun and moon but set to rise--
Round and round the seasons go.
Why, then, ask of silly man
To oppose great Nature's plan?
We'll be constant while we can--
You can be no more, you know.
JENNIE.
The following was written to Jean Jeffrey, daughter of a minister, who
afterward became Mrs. Renwick, and emigrated to New York with her
husband:
When first I saw fair Jennie's face
I couldna tell what ailed me;
My heart went fluttering pit-a-pat--
My een, they almost failed me.
She's aye sae neat, sae trim, sae tight
All grace does 'round her hover,
Ae look deprived me o' my heart
And I became a lover.
Had I Dundas' whole estate
Or Hopetown's wealth to shine in--
Did warlike laurels crown my brow
Or humbler bays entwining--
I'd lay them a' at Jennie's feet,
Could I but hope to move her
And prouder than a belted knight,
I'd be my Jennie's lover.
But sair I fear some happier swain
Has gained sweet Jennie's favor;
If so, may every bliss be hers,
Tho' I maun never have her.
But gang she east or gang she west,
'Twixt Forth and Tweed all over,
While men have eyes, or ears, or taste
She'll always find a lover.
The poet one day was taking a ride through the country on horseback and
when he got to the town of Carlisle became thirsty and stopped at a
tavern for a drink. He tethered his horse outside in the village green
where it was espied by the poundmaster, who took it to the pound. When
Burnsie came out he was mad clear through and this is what he wrote:
Was e'er puir poet sae befitted?
The maister drunk--the horse committed,
Puir harmless beast, tak thee nae care,
Thou'lt be a horse when he's nae mair (mare).
Andrew Turner was not highly appreciated by the poet, if we may judge
from the following:
In seventeen hundred and forty-nine
Satan took stuff to make a swine
And cuist it in a corner;
But wilely he changed his plan
And shaped it something like a man
And called it Andrew Turner.
A MOTHERS ADDRESS TO HER INFANT.
My blessing upon thy sweet wee lippie,
My blessing upon thy bonnie e'e brie!
Thy smiles are sae like my blithe sodger laddie
Thou's aye the dearer and dearer to me.
NATIONAL THANKSGIVING ON A NAVAL VICTORY.
Ye hypocrites! are these your pranks,
To murder men and gi'e God thanks?
For shame gi'e o'er! proceed no further--
God won't accept your thanks for murther.
TO FOLLY.
The graybeard, Old Wisdom, may boast of his treasures--
Give me with gay Folly to live;
Grant him calm-blooded, time-settled pleasures
But Folly has raptures to give.
TO LORD GALLOWAY.
What dost thou in that mansion fair?
Flit, Galloway, and find
Some narrow, dirty dungeon cave,
The picture of thy mind!
No Stewart art thou, Galloway--
The Stewarts all were brave;
Besides, the Stewarts were but fools,
Not one of them a knave.
Bright ran thy line, O Galloway!
Through many a far-famed sire;
So ran the far-famed Roman way--
So ended--in a mire!
Spare me thy vengeance, Galloway--
In quiet let me live;
I ask no kindness at thy hand,
For thou hast none to give.
The poet subscribed for a paper which he didn't receive regularly, so he
told the editor about it in this fashion:
Dear Peter, dear Peter,
We poor sons of meter
Are aften negleckit, ye ken;
For instance, your sheet, man,
Tho' glad I'm to see it, man,
I get no ae day in ten.
HONEST POVERTY.
Is there for honest poverty,
That hangs its head and a' that;
The coward slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that;
For a' that and a' that!
Our toil's obscure and a' that,
The rank is but the guinea's stamp
The man's the gowd for a' that.
What though on hamely fare we dine
Wear hoddin grey and a' that;
Give fools their silks and knaves their wine
A man's a man for a' that!
For a' that and a' that,
Their tinsel show and a' that;
The honest man, though e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that!
Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,
Wha' struts and stares and a' that?
Though hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that;
For a' that and a' that;
His riband, star and a' that,
The man of independent mind
He looks and laughs at a' that!
A prince can mak' a belted knight,
A marquis, duke and a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might--
Guid faith he maunna fa' that;
For a' that and a' that,
Their dignities and a' that.
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,
Are higher ranks than a' that.
Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it will for a' that,
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth
May bear the gree, and a' that!
For a' that and a' that
It's coming yet for a' that,
That man to man, the warld o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.
Here are a few facts concerning the personal and family history of the
poet:
His father's name was William Burness, and was born November 11, 1721,
at Clockenhill, Scotland. I suppose that Burness was the old-fashioned
way of spelling Burns, hence the difference in the names of the son and
father. The poet's name was Robert Burns and the father's William
Burness, or Burns.
His mother's name was Agnes Brown and she was born in the Carrick
district, Scotland, March 17, 1732.
Robert Burns, the great poet, was born January 25, 1759, and died July
21, 1796, being therefore not thirty-eight years of age at the time of
his death. He was the eldest of seven children who were named
consecutively Robert, Gilbert, Agnes, Arabella, William, John and
Isabel.
The wife of the poet, as I have previously stated in this volume, was
Jean Armour, and she was born at Mauchline in 1763 and died at Dumfries
in 1834. She survived the poet many years and died at the ripe old age
of 71. She was a national character and was made much of, as was
everyone else intimately or even remotely connected with the National
Bard. This is the reward of greatness, and thus any man or woman who
achieves honorable greatness, leaves distinction behind them and throws
a halo of glory over those with whom they have been connected or
associated.
The following children were born to the great poet and his wife:
Twins in 1786. The boy, Robert, lived, but the girl died in infancy.
Twins in 1788. Both died in infancy.
Francis Wallace died at the age of 14.
William Nicol, born in 1791.
Elizabeth Riddell, born in 1792. Died at the age of two years.
James Glencairne, born in 1794, died in 1865.
Maxwell, born in 1796, died at the age of two.
It will be seen that the poet was the father of quite a number of
children, some of whom lived to a ripe old age. Whether he was the
father of any more children I am sure I don't know. If he was, almost
any Scot will know it and can tell you more about it than I can. Bobbie
was a very handsome man and was greatly admired by almost everyone,
including the ladies. Some of his poems would lead one to believe that,
like Byron,
He was unskilled to cozen,
And shared his love among a dozen.
but that may be mere poetic license. Poets, you know, have an eye for
the _beautiful_, whether it be in landscape scenery, flowers,
architecture, painting, statuary, the human form or what not. At any
rate "Puir Rabbie" was the daddy of the children whose names I have
given, for that is a matter of history. To show that the poet loved a
joke himself, no matter on what subject, I here quote a little rhyme of
his gotten off on a friend named James Smith who lived at Mauchline:
Lament him, Mauchline husbands a'
He aften did assist ye;
For had ye stayed whole weeks awa'
Your wives they n'er had missed ye.
In my short career I have run up against lots of folks who cannot take a
joke or see the point of one and these poor people I pity, but do not
blame, for they were born that way. I have always been poor but never
proud and could take a joke--that is, when I could see the point of it.
When I couldn't see the point of it I did not get angry.
Burnsie was a farmer and lived on ranches the most of his life. He was a
hayseed from way back but as soon as he got celebrated high society
began to run after him and the poor fellow couldn't keep away from it if
he tried. It didn't take him long to learn how to make a bow without
upsetting the table, but he was out of his element among the grand
folks. Did he need polish to make him shine? I trow not. Wasn't his
genius just as great before he struck society? Sure! But just to please
folks he hobnobbed with them though he was as much out of his element as
a fish when out of water. No doubt he wore a biled shirt and black
claw-hammer coat and made his coat tails fly around pretty lively as he
skipped around in a dance, but as society wanted him it got him. Had he
lived long enough he might have been a baron, marquis, duke or count.
Who can tell? While a plowman he scorned titles, but I wonder whether he
would have rejected a patent of nobility had it been tendered him.
Genius is a complex quality. Samuel Smiles in his great work, "Self
Help," says that genius is nothing more nor less than a capacity for
taking infinite pains, and the world in general seems to have accepted
his definition or explanation, but I, Windy Bill, an untutored savage
from the Wild West, beg to differ wholly from Sam and I will "show you"
why, and permit you to judge for yourself. Had Samuel defined _art_
instead of genius as "an infinite capacity for taking pains" he might
have been nearer the truth. Let us take the case of Burns. While
plowing he wrote rhymes, but as he knew little or nothing of the art of
versification he set his thoughts in mellifluous language of his own.
Was it his thoughts or their setting that captivated people? His
thoughts, of course, though the jingle made them more harmonious. Genius
is the thought; art the setting. Tell me then that genius is a capacity
for taking pains. Nary time. It comes forth spontaneous, natural, can't
help itself. It is a God-given quality which lots of people possess to a
greater or less degree. Musicians have it, as have painters, architects,
writers, sculptors and people in all walks of life. Lots of poets in
Scotland had genius long before our great friend Rabbie was born, and
lots since them have had more or less of a share of the "divine
afflatus," as some writers call it, but were any of them gifted as
highly as Puir Rabbie? Not a one. Will another like him arise? Search
me! There hasn't yet.
Notwithstanding that Rabbie was so highly gifted, he didn't know it.
Don't you believe me? If you don't you needn't take my word for it, for
I have evidence here that will prove it. I quote the preface that he
wrote to the first book of his that ever was printed. Here it is:
"The following trifles are not the production of the poet, who,
with all the advantages of learned art and perhaps amid the
elegancies and idleness of upper life looks down for a rural theme
with an eye to Theocritus or Virgil. Unacquainted with the
necessary requisites for commencing poetry by rule, he sings the
sentiments and manners he felt and saw in himself and his rustic
compeers around him, in his and their native language. Though a
rhymer from his earlier years it was not till very lately that the
applause (perhaps the partiality) of friendship awakened his vanity
so as to make him think anything of his worth showing, for none of
the poems were composed with a view to the press. To amuse himself
with the little creations of his own fancy amid the toil and
fatigue of a laborious life, these were his motives for courting
the muses. Now that he appears in the public character of an
author, he does it with fear and trembling. So dear is fame to the
rhyming tribe that even he, an obscure, nameless bard, shrinks
aghast at the thought of being branded as an impertinent blockhead,
obtruding his nonsense on the world; and because he can make shift
to jingle a few doggerel Scottish rhymes together, looking upon
himself as a poet of no small consequence, forsooth! If any critic
catches at the word Genius, the author tells him, once for all,
that he certainly looks upon himself as possessed of some poetic
abilities, otherwise the publishing, in the manner he has done,
would be a maneuver below the worst character his worst enemy will
ever give him. But to the genius of an Allan Ramsay or a Robert
Ferguson he has not the least pretension, nor ever had, even in his
highest pulse of vanity. These two justly admired Scottish poets he
has often had in his eye but rather to kindle in their flame than
for servile imitation.
"To his subscribers the author returns his most sincere thanks--not
the mercenary bow over a counter, but the heart-throbbing gratitude
of the bard, conscious how much he owes to benevolence and
friendship for gratifying him, if he deserves it, in that dearest
wish of every poetic bosom--to be distinguished. He begs his
readers, particularly the learned and the polite who may honor him
with a perusal, that they will make every allowance for education
and circumstances of life; but if, after a fair, candid and
impartial criticism he shall stand convicted of dullness and
nonsense let him be done by as he would in that case do by
others--let him be condemned without mercy, to contempt and
oblivion."
It is a queer fact that those mortals who possessed the greatest genius
were always the most simple and diffident, and dubious about their own
powers. They had a feeling in them that they were born to soar but they
were hesitating, doubtful and did not know their very simplicity was a
part of their greatness. They didn't appreciate their own capacities at
first any more than are their capabilities appreciated by less gifted
mortals. Before Burns' time Allan Ramsay and Robert Ferguson were looked
upon as the greatest poets Scotland had ever produced, and so great
were they that even Burns looked upon them with awe; and yet, unknown to
himself, he was far greater than they. His generation may not have known
it, but this generation does. Was Shakespeare appreciated in his
generation? He was not. Was any truly great man? Hardly.
The earliest book of Burns that ever was put in print consisted of his
minor poems which were written while he was in the fields plowing.
Of course he wasn't plowing always, so some were written while he was
outdoors, here, there and everywhere in the vicinity of his country
home. They were put into book-form by the advice of his friends and John
Wilson at Kilmarnock, was the man who volunteered to do the printing.
The book was a thin one, about half as thick as the ordinary novel of
to-day, and it was agreed that only 612 books be struck off as a first
edition. Mr. John Wilson was a long-headed printer and would not agree
to print a single volume until at least 300 of the books had been
subscribed for beforehand. He figured it out this way: "Suppose the book
fails, where do I get off at? I set it up in type, do the binding,
furnish the paper, pay the devil and the compositors, do the press work,
make-up and all, so can I afford to take all the chances of getting any
money out of this blooming poetry?" Mr. Wilson was a canny Scot and
didn't propose to take any chances. He surely didn't lose anything in
this venture, but whether he made anything I am unable to say.
Now, all of this is a very imperfect sketch of my old pard Burnsie, and
if you care to know more about him I can refer you to quite a few
biographies that have been written about him and are still being
written about him by the score to this day. No less a personage than Sir
Walter Scott has written a life history of him and so has the poet's own
brother, Gilbert. Here is a list you can choose from:
Appeared
1. Robert Heron (Life of Burns) 1797
2. Dr. James Currie (Life and Works, 4 vols 1800
Works and Sketch of Life)
3. James Stover and John Grieg (Illustrated) 1804
4. Robert Hartley Cromek (Reliques of Burns) 1808
5. Lord Francis Jeffrey (Edinburgh Review) 1808
6. Sir Walter Scott (Quarterly Review) 1808
7. Dr. David Irving (Life of Burns) 1810
8. Prof. Josiah Walker (Life and Poems, 2 vols) 1811
9. Rev. Hamilton Paul (Life and Poems) 1819
10. Gilbert Burns 1820
11. Hugh Ainslie (Pilgrimage to the Land of Burns) 1822
12. Archibald Constable (Life and Works, 3 vols) 1823
13. Alex. Peterkin (Life and Works, 4 vols) 1824
14. John G. Lockhart (Life of Burns) 1828
15. Thomas Carlyle (Edinburgh Review) 1828
16. Allan Cunningham (Life and Works, 8 vols) 1834
17. James Hogg and William Motherwell
(Memoirs and Works, 5 vols.) 1854
18. Prof. John Wilson (Essay on Genius) 1840
19. W. C. McLehose (Correspondence) 1843
20. Samuel Tyler (Burns as a Poet and Man) 1849
21. Robert Chambers (Life and Works) 1851
22. George Gilfillan (Memoirs and Works, 2 vols) 1856
23. Rev. James White (Burns and Scott) 1858
24. Rev. P. H. Waddell (Life and Works) 1859
25. William Michael (Life and Works) 1871