London, is a creature so winning and delectable in character that one
proceeds to the study of the Scot at home with anticipations of the most
pleasurable kind. The best way to study the Scot at home is, of course,
to consult the works of those eminent Scottish writers, Dr. J. M. Barrie
and Dr. Ian Maclaren, with occasional reference to Dr. S. R. Crockett.
Dr. Barrie and Dr. Maclaren (otherwise Watson) have been at pains to
portray for us, with what Dr. Nicoll would no doubt call loving and
exquisite fidelity, the peoples and manners and customs of two Scotch
parishes, named respectively Thrums and Drumtochty. Both, one gathers,
are the prettiest, most charitable, and most God-fearing communities to
be found upon this globe of sinful continents. Butter will not melt,
and ginger is not hot in the mouth either at Thrums or Drumtochty. The
various books of the chronicles of that earthly paradise, Thrums, are
of formidable number, and I do not profess to have read more than five
of them. But I have read enough to know all that I want to know about
Thrums. Here, it seems, “twenty years ago, hundreds of weavers lived and
died Thoreaus ’ben the hoose without knowing it.” Here also lived “the
dear old soul who originally induced me to enter the Auld Licht Kirk” and
was “as sweet and pure a woman as I ever knew”; also Tammy Mealmaker,
who died a bachelor and “had been soured in his youth by disappointment
in love of which he spoke but seldom,” also Tibbie McQuhattay, “at whom
you may smile, but, ah! I know what she was at the sick-bedside”; also
Whinny Webster, who ate peppermints in church, and when detected in
the act “gave one wild scream”; and “straightway became a God-fearing
man”; also Hendry Munn, “who was the only man in Thrums who did not
quake when the minister looked at him”; also Jess McQumpha, who “sat at
the window for twenty years or more, looking at the world as through a
telescope,” and who “was possessed of a sweet, untarnished soul”; also
Leeby, who “died in the back end of the year I have been speaking of”;
and Jamie, who did the home-coming, and gaed somebody “sic a look”; and
last, but not least, in childishness, the Little Minister and Babbie.
For blithering sentiment of the cheapest and most obvious sort, these
personages have certainly never been equalled. The whole tone of the
Thrums chronicles is as bathotic as it could be made even by a Scotchman,
and wherever one turns one finds Mr. Barrie trotting out creatures of a
sentiment so slobbery that it would be eschewed even by the scribbling,
simpering misses at a seminary. And at Drumtochty, need one say, Dr. Ian
Maclaren introduces you to the same set of silly figures. Dr. Maclaren,
it is true, put in the front of his show a cunning Scotch farmer whose
attempts to cheat his landlord, the worthy doctor,—parson as he is,—would
evidently have you smile, but all the rest of his people are rare and
radiant pieces of virtue, clothed round in Scotch flesh and sandy hair,
and speaking the most uncompromising dialect. For example, there is
Mrs. Elspeth Macfadyen. This lady’s claim to greatness is not exactly
of a moral kind, being based on the circumstance that she obtained a
penny above the market price for her butter. All the farmers’ wives of
the Scotch romances invariably do this. Even Dr. Crockett’s lady of
the lilac sunbonnet made the best butter in three parishes. The butter
woman, however, is not intended to count, so that we will let her go by,
and proceed duly to note the heavenly dispositions of the rest of the
Drumtochtyans. In the first place, there is Baxter of Burnbrae. Burnbrae,
it seems, “had to make the choice that has been offered to every man
since the world began”; in other words, he had to choose between losing
his farm and changing his kirk.
“‘Well, Baxter,’ said the factor in his room next day, ‘your offer is all
right in the money, and we’ll soon settle the building. By the way, I
suppose you’ve thought over that kirk affair, and will give your word to
attend the Established Church, eh?’
“‘Ye may be sure that A’ve gien a’ ye said ma best judgment, and there’s
naething I wudna dae to be left in Burnbrae, but this thing ye ask A
canna grant.’
“‘Why not?’ and the factor, lounging in his chair, eyed Burnbrae
contemptuously as he stood erect before him. ‘My groom tells me that
there is not a grain of difference between all those kirks in Scotland,
and that the whole affair is just downright bad temper, and I believe
he’s right.’
“‘A wudna say onything disrespectfu’, sir, but it’s juist possible that
naither you nor your groom ken the history o’ the Free Church; but ye
may be sure sensible men and puir fouk dinna mak’ sic sacrifices for bad
temper.’”
Which is exceeding good of Burnbrae, if a little too bad of Dr. Maclaren.
And our excellent Scotch author makes Burnbrae conclude the interview
thus: “‘Sir,’ he said, with great solemnity, ‘I pray God you may never
have such sorrow as you have sent on my house this day.’” I should very
much doubt whether there is a Scotchman in all Scotland who would not
have made quite a different ending with much fist-shaking and calling
down of curses in it.
Well, in the result, Burnbrae does leave his farm; anyway, there is a
sale, or as the Scotch elegantly term it, a roup. And what happens? Why,
the neighbours—good, honest bodies—turn up in their thousands and buy in
Burnbrae’s farming stock at noble prices, bidding high for everything
in order that Burnbrae may at least have a good roup. Meanwhile the
minister of the kirk with which Burnbrae scorned to become a member has
communicated with the owner of the soil, the Earl of Kilspindie to wit,
and to Burnbrae Kilspindie writes, “Meet me in Muirtown on Friday.” On
Friday, Burnbrae meets the Earl. They crack together of Burnbrae’s son,
the sergeant, who, like all the other Scotch sergeants of fiction, has
just won the Victoria Cross. “‘There will be no speaking to Mrs. Baxter
now after this exploit of the sergeant’s! When I read it on my way home
I was as proud as if he had been my own son. It was a gallant deed,
and well deserves the Cross. He’ll be getting his commission some day.
Lieutenant Baxter! That will stir the Glen, eh?’” Then they touch on the
matter of the farm, and the tears come to Burnbrae’s eyes. “‘Athocht,’
he said, ‘when yir message cam, that maybe ye hed anither mind than yir
factor, and wud send me back tae Jean wi’ guid news in ma mooth.’
“‘Gin it be yir wull that we flit, A’ll mak nae mair complaint, an’
there’s nae bitterness in ma hert. But A wud like ye tae ken that it ’ill
be a sair pairtin’.
“‘For twa hundred years an’ mair there’s been a Baxter at Burnbrae and a
Hay at Kilspindie; ane wes juist a workin’ farmer, an’ the other a belted
earl, but gude freends an’ faithfu’; an’, ma Lord, Burnbrae wes as dear
tae oor fouk as the castle wes tae yours.
“‘A mind that day the Viscount cam’ o’ age, an’ we gaithered tae wush him
weel, that A saw the pictures o’ the auld Hays on yir walls, an’ thocht
hoo mony were the ties that bund ye tae yir hame.
“We haena pictures nor gowden treasures, but there’s an auld chair at
oor fireside, an’ A saw ma grandfather in it when A wes a laddie at the
schule, an’ A mind him tellin’ me that his grandfather hed sat in lang
afore. It’s no worth muckle, an’ it’s been often mended, but A’ll no like
tae see it carried oot frae Burnbrae.
“‘There is a Bible, tae, that hes come doon, father tae son, frae 1690,
and ilka Baxter hes written his name in it, an’ “farmer at Burnbrae,” but
it’ll no’ be dune again, for oor race ’ill be awa frae Burnbrae for ever.
“‘Be patient wi’ me, ma Lord, for it’s the laist time we’re like tae
meet, an’ there’s anither thing A want tae say, for it’s heavy on ma hert.
“‘When the factor told me within this verra room that we maun leave, he
spoke o’ me as if A hed been a lawless man, an’ it cut me mair than ony
ither word.
“‘Ma Lord, it’s no’ the men that fear their God that ’ill brak the laws,
an’ A ken nae Baxter that wes ither than a loyal man tae his King and
country.
“‘Ma uncle chairged wi’ the Scots Greys at Waterloo, and A mind him
tellin’, when A wes a wee laddie, hoo the Hielanders cried oot, “Scotland
for ever,” as they passed.
“‘A needna tell ye aboot ma brither, for he wes killed by yir side afore
Sebastopol, and the letter ye sent tae Burnbrae is keepit in that Bible
for a heritage.
“‘A’ll mention naething aither o’ ma ain laddie, for ye’ve said mair than
wud be richt for me, but we coont it hard that when oor laddie hes shed
his blude like an honest man for his Queen, his auld father and mither
sud be driven frae the hame their forebears hed for seeven generations.’”
What a family! The sergeant with the V. C., ma uncle who chairged wi’ the
Scots Greys, and ma brither who wes killed by yir side afore Sebastopol,
and, of course, the Bible has to be lugged in. What wonder that at this
outburst of Scottish reticence, so to say, Lord Kilspindie rose to his
feet. In the twinkling of a paragraph or two the shallow, monstrous,
black-hearted English factor is, need one say, coming in for a bit of his
Lordship’s mind.
“‘You’ll reduce the rent to the old figure, and put in the name of John
Baxter, and let it be for the longest period we ever give on the estate.’
“‘But, Lord Kilspindie … I … did you know⸺’
“‘Do as I command you without another word,’ and his Lordship was fearful
to behold.”
Baxter goes home to his farm victor. The news goes down the Glen,—or up
it as the case may be,—and the question arises as to what Baxter is going
to do with the farm that has been denuded of live stock and implements,
and before you can say Jack Robinson every man who has made a purchase at
the Burnbrae roup is off to Burnbrae with his purchase and dumps it down
and leaves it there, free, gratis, and for nothing.
Now the whole of this story is simply ridiculous. Even if one swallowed
the English factor who had turned an old tenant out of his farm on a
question of kirk; even if one swallowed the neighbourly bidding up at
the roup (not to mention the Victoria Cross and the fighting uncle and
brither), Dr. Maclaren cannot make us believe that a Scotchman would
part freely and without price with anything that he had once bought. And
what a reflection it is upon the dulness of the patient, resigned, and
tear-stricken Burnbrae, that he did not have the presence of mind to
address dear, good Earl of Kilspindie before the roup came off! But had
he done that, of course, Dr. Ian Maclaren could not have made his point
as to the incredible generosity of the dwellers about Drumtochty.
But the Glen could boast much more remarkable men than Burnbrae. There is
Drumsheugh, about as pale a martyr as a martyr-loving people could wish
for. Drumsheugh passed in the Glen for a hard man and a miser, “a wratch
that ’ill hae the laist penny in a bargain, and no spend a saxpence
gin he can keep it.” But Drumsheugh was sairly misjudged. He carried
his tribble for mair than thirty year, and then unburdened himself of
it over the whiskey to his friend, Dr. Maclure. “‘It wes for anither A
githered, an’ as fast as A got the gear A gied it awa’,’ and Drumsheugh
sprang to his feet, his eyes shining; ‘it wes for love’s sake A haggled
an’ schemed, an’ stairved an’ toiled, till A’ve been a byword at kirk an’
market for nearness; A did it a’, an’ bore it a’, for ma love, an’ for
… ma love A wud hae dune ten times mair.’” Naturally, and the lady in
the case was named Marget, the bonniest as weel as the noblest o’ weemen
(they all are). Well, Drumsheugh fell in love with Marget when she was
in her bloom. With the true Scottish reticence, however, he omitted to
mention his condition to the object of his affection, so that she went
off quite properly and married a feckless person named Whinnie, who,
being feckless, got himself into persistent holes for money, so that
Whinnie and Marget were continually being threatened with the loss of
their happy home, and all the time Drumsheugh, for love’s sake, kept on
sending money through his solicitors in the name of Whinnie’s rich uncle
in America. For thirty years Whinnie continued to be a drain on his
purse, and Drumsheugh spake no word, but went on loving Marget all the
time. Being made the recipient of this astonishing confidence, Maclure
is for posting off to Marget right away, and she, good woman, posts as
swiftly off to Drumsheugh. It is a case of ae fond kiss and dinna peety
me, Marget; A’ve hed ma reward, an’ A’m mair than content; and we wind
up with the biblical reflection that “They which shall be accounted
worthy … neither marry nor are given in marriage … but are as the angels
of God in Heaven”; which is all very pretty and all very Scotch, and all
made to sell. We may note, however, that Drumsheugh did not stand alone
in Drumtochty for his devotion to a lost love. The fetch is too easy and
too safe for Dr. Maclaren to allow himself the use of it only once. There
was a man in Drumtochty who had been counted a cynic and a railer against
“merridge,” even as Drumsheugh was accounted a miser. In the course of
nature this man, Jamie Soutar, came to die. On his death bed he remarked
to a friend, “‘Wha sed A wes against merridge, Doctor Davidson?’ and
Jamie’s face flushed. ‘Did ever man or woman hear me speak lichtly o’ the
mystery o’ love? The Glen hes thocht me an auld cankered bachelor, an’
A’ve seen a lass leave her lad’s side on the sicht o’ me. Little they
kent!’” And it transpires that “‘forty-five years syne A met … a lassie
near Kildrummie, an’ A cam tae love her aince and for ever, an’ we hed …
seeven evenin’s thegither. When A cam the next day she wesna there, an’ A
hoddit amang the trees for a ploy; but it wes lang waitin’, for she didna
come, an’ A gaed hame wi’ fear in ma hert.…
“‘A set aff tae her hoose, and ilka turn o’ the road A lookit for Menie.
Aince ma hert loupit in ma breist like a birdie in its cage, for a wumman
cam’ along the near road frae Kildrummie, but it wesna Menie.
“‘When A saw her brither wi’ his face tae Drumtochty, A kent, afore he
said a word, that he wes seekin’ me, an’ that Menie was deid. Never a
tear cam’ that day tae ma een, an’ he telt me, stannin’ in the middle o’
the road, where it begins tae gae doon the hill:
“‘It wes her throat, an’ the doctor wes feared frae the first day. The
nicht she didna come she wes carried (delirious); she … said, “Jamie,
Jamie,” ower an’ ower again, an’ wanted tae rise.
“‘Aboot daybreak she cam’ tae hersel’, and knew oor faces. “A’m deein’,”
she said, “an’ A didna keep ma tryst last nicht. It’s ower late noo, an’
A’ll no see him on earth again.
“‘“Tell James Soutar that it wesna ma blame A failed, an’ gie him ma
Bible,” an’ a while aifter she said, “A’ll keep the tryst wi’ him some
day,” an’ … that’s a’.’”
After that, any child could tell you what Jamie’s “last words” would be.
“‘Menie,’ he cried, suddenly, with a new voice, ‘A’ve keepit oor tryst.’”
Heaven help us!
VI
BARBIE
From Thrums and Drumtochty the blest to Barbie, which is also in
Scotland, may be fairly described as a far cry. In the beautiful
communities conceived by Drs. Barrie and Maclaren the milk of human
nature flows like a river; everybody lives, not for his or her foolish
self, but for somebody else; everybody dies for somebody else; all
bachelors are faithful to the sweethearts of their youth “for forty
year and more”; all the women make the best butter in Galloway; all the
girls are pretty and angelic of temperament, and, in short, Thrums and
Drumtochty are little bits of heaven dropped on to the map of Scotland.
But Barbie is not of heavenly origin in the least. The chronicles of
Barbie have been put into print for us by Mr. George Douglas, and he
calls his book _The House with the Green Shutters_. If he had wanted a
just title for it, he might very well have called it “The Unspeakable
Scot.” Nowhere in letters does there exist such an unsophisticated
revelation of the minds and habits of a savage and barbarous people as is
to be found in this book. It is fiction, of course; but it is that kind
of fiction which has been written from observation, and is practically a
human document. The Barbie crowd do not waste any time on little acts of
kindness; there is not a man among them who cannot fairly be termed mean.
If meanness were the only fault one might be able to put up with Barbie;
but the inhabitants have graver failings. They are all dour; they are
all bitter-hearted; they are all greedy; they are all merciless and full
of the wickedest guile. Gourlay, who is the hero of the piece, counts
among the most unpleasant persons one has ever met in a book. He has “the
black glower in his een,” and all the Scotch qualities of envy, hatred,
overweening pride, and tyranny find full expression in him. For years
he has trampled the rest of Barbie under his feet, and all Barbie hates
him. “He had been born and bred in Barbie, and he knew his townsmen—oh,
yes—he knew them. He knew they laughed because he had no gift of the
gab, and could never be provost, or bailie, or elder, or even chairman
of the gasworks! ‘Oh, verra well, verra well, let Connal and Brodie and
Allardyce have the talk, and manage the town’s affairs’ (he was damned
if they should manage his!); he, for his part, preferred the substantial
reality.” So that he treated Barbie with contempt; he had a civil word
for nobody, and his manners were as bad as only Scotch manners can be. It
was these very manners, however, that helped to bring about his downfall.
One fine morning a stranger walked into Barbie; he was a Scotchman,
and in his appearance there was “an air of dirty and pretentious
well-to-doness,” which is the Scotch way. Well, this stranger ran up
against Mr. Gourlay.
“‘It’s a fine morning, Mr. Gourlay!’ simpered the stranger. His air was
that of a forward tenant who thinks it a great thing to pass remarks on
the weather with his laird.
“Gourlay cast a look at the dropping heavens.
“‘Is that _your_ opinion?’ said he. ‘I fail to see ’t mysel’.…’
“The stranger laughed, a little deprecating giggle. ‘I meant it was fine
weather for the fields,’ he explained.…
“‘Are _you_ a farmer, then?’ Gourlay nipped in, with his eye on the white
waistcoat.
“‘Oh—oh, Mr. Gourlay! A farmer, no. Hi—hi! I’m not a farmer. I daresay,
now, you have no mind of _me_!’
“‘No,’ said Gourlay, regarding him very gravely and steadily with his
dark eyes. ‘I cannot say, sir, that I have the pleasure of remembering
_you_!’
“‘Man, I’m a son of auld John Wilson of Brigabee!’
“‘Oh, auld Wilson, the mole-catcher!’ said contemptuous Gourlay. ‘What’s
this they christened him now? “Toddling Johnnie,” was it noat?’
“Wilson coloured. But he sniggered to gloss over the awkwardness of the
remark. A coward always sniggers when insulted, pretending that the
insult is only a joke of his opponent, and therefore to be laughed aside.
So he escapes the quarrel which he fears a show of displeasure might
provoke.
“But, though Wilson was not a handy man, it was not timidity only that
caused his tame submission to Gourlay.…”
Here you have the two types of Scotchmen presented in speaking
likenesses, namely, the bully, primed with “repressiveness” and “force of
character,” and the giggling lickspittle who does not know how to fight
and consequently falls back on livid revenges.
Later, Wilson ventures on a remark about business. Gourlay retorts:
“‘Business! Heavens, did ye hear him talking? What did Toddling Johnny’s
son know about business? What was the world coming to? To hear him
setting up his face there and asking the best merchant in the town
whether business was brisk! It was high time to put him in his place, the
conceited upstart, shoving himself forward like an equal!’
“For it was the assumption of equality implied by Wilson’s manner that
offended Gourlay—as if mole-catcher’s son and monopolist were discussing,
on equal terms, matters of interest to them both.
“‘Business!’ he said, gravely. ‘Well, I’m not well acquainted with your
line, but I believe mole-traps are cheap—if ye have any idea of taking up
the oald trade!’
“Wilson’s eyes flickered over him, hurt and dubious. His mouth
opened—then shut—then he decided to speak after all. ‘Oh, I was thinking
Barbie would be very quiet,’ said he, ‘compared wi’ places where they
have the railway! I was thinking it would need stirring up a bit.’
“‘Oh, ye was thinking that, was ye?’ birred Gourlay, with a stupid man’s
repetition of his jibe. ‘Well, I believe there’s a grand opening in the
moleskin line, so _there’s_ a chance for ye! My quarrymen wear out their
breeks in no time!’
“Wilson’s face, which had swelled with red shame, went a dead white.
‘Good morning!’ he said, and started rapidly away with a vicious dig of
his stick upon the wet road.
“Goo-ood mor-r-ning, serr!’ Gourlay birred after him; ‘goo-ood
mor-r-ning, serr!’ He felt he had been bright this morning. He had put
the branks on Wilson!”
In spite of his smallness and rattiness, Wilson is not without his Scotch
feelings, so that he goes away and schemes. And the end of his scheming
is that he becomes a trade rival of Gourlay’s in Barbie. Perhaps man
never had a more unscrupulous or fiendishly cunning trade rival. The end
of it is that Gourlay is brought to the verge of bankruptcy and dies
miserably, while Barbie is left to go on its wicked way rejoicing. This
fight between two ugly natures is watched by the population of Barbie
with great zest; the combatants are continually egged on by the sarcastic
comments of the neebors, who practically hate them both as they hate
one another. And the result is a picture which rivals in hideousness
anything of the kind which has hitherto been attempted. From _The House
with the Green Shutters_ one is able to gather what life in a Scotch
township really means. One understands, too, how it comes to pass that
the Scotchmen one meets in London are so wanting in the qualities which
render communication between men possible and tolerable. Persons who
have spent their youth in such a township as Barbie must of necessity
have altogether wrong views about life and the reason for it. Their hand
is against every man; to get and to keep by fair means or foul is their
sole ambition, and of the finer feelings which keep existence sweet they
know absolutely nothing. It is a squalid picture, and not in the least
flattering to Scotland. Yet the Scotch critics have not ventured to
deny its authenticity; indeed, they admit that there is a great deal in
it. Mr. Douglas, the author of _The House with the Green Shutters_, is
himself a Scotchman, and to malign his country is about the last thing
you may expect from a Scotch writer; his tendency usually is the other
way. To put Thrums, Drumtochty, and Barbie into one vessel, as it were,
to mix them and make a blend of them is probably to get at the truth
about the Scot as he lives and moves in his native element. And when
one has done this, one can only imagine that the average Scotchman is a
compound of two things,—to wit, the knave and the fool.
VII
THE BARD
In England “the Bard” stands for Shakespeare; in Scotland, of course,
when you say “the Bard” you mean Robert Burns. Nothing that Scotland
ever possessed has abided so firmly in the heart of the Scotchman as
“the Bard”—Robert Burns, that is to say. An Englishman can forget that
Shakespeare ever existed. A Scotsman never forgets that Robert Burns was
a Scotchman. Morn, noon, and night he will talk to you of Burns if you
give him half a chance. Till Dr. J. M. Barrie and Dr. Crockett came in,
the Scotchman had no other book but a dog’s-eared Burns, from which work
he gathered his views of life, including justification for his vices.
Round the person and poetry of Burns numberless well-meaning people have
found it worth their while to write a literature. There was a time when
“the Bard” received praise only from mere poets. Keats wrote sonnets
about him; Montgomery offered him the usual graceful tribute; Wordsworth
mentioned him cheek by jowl with Chatterton; and even Eliza Cook had her
metrical say about him. Then the prose men came along—Carlyle, Stevenson,
Henley. Carlyle took the man Burns and set him up for a tremendous
genius, with “a head of gold.” Stevenson, whom probably for this reason
the Scotch do not love, ventured to suggest that Mr. Burns had “feet of
clay.” Mr. Henley followed and accentuated the feet of clay, greatly
to the annoyance of all Scotland. It ill becomes the present writer to
attempt to do what has already been done so well, therefore he will say
nothing about either heads of gold or feet of clay. But Robert Burns is
everybody’s property, and one may crave leave even at this late day to
say about him the thing that one believes. The whole truth about Burns
may be summed up in half a dozen words. He was a poet, he was a loose
liver, and he was a ploughman. And if one looks through his writings, one
is forced to the conclusion that he owes his fame to the circumstances
that he was a loose liver and a ploughman rather than to the circumstance
that he was a poet. To take up the works of Burns in one volume and to
glance through them haphazard, assaying here a page and there a page, is
to come to a knowledge of him which is rather staggering. As I write, I
have before me the Globe Edition of the _Complete Works of Robert Burns_,
edited by Alexander Smith. It is a portly book, and one is aware that
it contains matter which is really of excellent quality, considered as
poetry. Yet to test it by chance openings is to perceive that in the main
Burns, as poet, has been vastly overrated. On page 211, for example,
which is about the middle of the book, I find five pieces, not one of
which is good enough to grace a common valentine. We lead off with
_Peggy’s Charms_:
My Peggy’s face, my Peggy’s form,
The frost of hermit age might warm;
My Peggy’s worth, my Peggy’s mind,
Might charm the first of human kind.
I love my Peggy’s angel air,
Her face so truly, heavenly fair,
Her native grace so void of art;
But I adore my Peggy’s heart.
Not to put too fine a point upon it, this is arrant drivel, villainously
rhymed. Then comes _Up in the Morning Early_:
Up in the morning’s no’ for me,
Up in the morning early;
When a’ the hills are cover’d wi’ snaw,
I’m sure it’s winter fairly.
Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west,
The drift is driving sairly;
Sae loud and shrill’s I hear the blast,
I’m sure it’s winter fairly.
The birds sit chittering in the thorn,
A’ day they fare but sparely;
And lang’s the night frae e’en to morn,
I’m sure it’s winter fairly.
One surmises _Up in the Morning Early_ belongs to “that great body
of treasurable songs with which Burns has dowered his countrymen.”
On the face of it, to find sorrier stuff one would have to visit an
English music hall. There is not a glimmer of poetry in any one of
the twelve lines, and the composition as a whole might have been
written by a precocious infant in a Glasgow Board School. After this
precious production we are regaled with the appended touching piece of
sentimentalism:
Tho’ cruel fate should bid us part,
As far’s the pole and line;
Her dear idea round my heart
Should tenderly entwine.