British Icons – Robert Burns
Tomorrow night, January 25th, is Burns Night, when Scotland celebrates the life and works of its poet laureate Robert Burns. Born in 1759, Burns was the son of a poor tenant farmer from Ayreshire. Despite his lack of wealth, William Burnes, Robert’s father, insisted that his son be educated and hired a tutor to assist with his studies. Robert wrote his first poem at age 15 , O, Once I Lov’d A Bonnie Lass, about his first love, Nelly Kirkpatrick, a laborer on his father’s farm. In 1786, Burns published his first book of works, Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect, which proved to be an instant success.
Most of Burns’ works were written in Scots but later translated to English and celebrated Scottish life and tradition. He penned some of the most well-known traditional Scottish folk songs like “A Red, Red Rose” and the timeless classic “Auld Lang Syne.” Burns was married and fathered fourteen children. He died from heart failure in 1796 at age 37, the very day his wife gave birth to his last child, Maxwell.
Since his death Robert Burns has become a cultural icon in Scotland and the subject of the most celebrated day on the Scottish calendar, after Hogmanay. In fact, Burns Night draws more celebrations than Scotland’s traditional national day, St. Andrew’s Day. Some festivities of the night are quite casual while others stand on tradition. A Burns Night Supper might include bagpipers who play in the presentation of a ceremonial haggis and the reciting of Burns’ “Ode to a Haggis”, concluding with the singing of “Auld Lang Syne.” The dress code might range from casual to full on highland gear. All in all, a fitting tribute to Scotland’s beloved “Rabbie.”
by Robert Burns
Great Chieftan o’ the Puddin-race!
Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy of a grace
As lang’s my arm
The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
You pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o’need
While thro’ your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead
His knife see Rustic-labour dight,
An’ cut you up wi’ ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reeking, rich!
Then, horn for horn they stretch an’ strive,
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive
Bethankit hums
Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi’ perfect sconner,
Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view
On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither’d rash
His spindle-shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro’ bluidy flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!
But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He’ll mak it whissle;
An’ legs, an’ arms an’ heads will sned,
Like taps o’ thrissle
Ye pow’rs wha mak mankind your care,
An’ dish them out their bill o’fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu’ pray’r,
Gie her a Haggis!
Wish to have your own Burns Supper? Check this out.
