I am by no means a poet nor am I a connoisseur of poetry. I have posted here before works by Robert Frost as, from time to time, I do appreciate a good poem. It's important to slow down sometimes and take in the world around us, isn't it?
This past spring, I spent some time with another poetic Bob: Robert Burns (Scotland, mid-late 1700s). Overall, I have to say that I enjoy Frost more than Burns due, in no small part, to the fact that I can understand his writing better...literally. American Frost always writes in English whereas Scottish Burns writes sometimes in English, sometimes in his native Scottish dialect.
For those of you who haven't seen or aren't familiar with
Scots, consider the classic New Year's anthem, Auld Lang Syne (by
Robert Burns). Do any of you have an effing clue what that
song is about? Probably not, but I'll give you a hint: it is a
nostalgic piece about a time long past (or, for those of you familiar with my
niece/goddaughter, "a long day ago").
Fortunately, the publication that I read included a Scots-English glossary in the back, but flipping back and forth in an already hefty volume made for rather cumbersome reading. I didn't actually finish the entire book but, to be fair, I probably wouldn't have anyway. I can't read a book of poetry cover to cover, can you?
I picked a few poems to read here and there throughout this
publication, but three stood out to me. I'll share these with you here:
A POET'S WELCOME TO HIS LOVE-BEGOTTEN DAUGHTER
The first instance that entitled him to the venerable appellation of Father
[Context: Burns wrote this poem after the birth of
his first child -a daughter named Elizabeth- who was born out of wedlock. He had rather a notorious reputation as a floozy but, despite being the product
of such scandalous actions of the day, Burns adored his baby girl. Sadly,
he never married her mother and baby Elizabeth was eventually raised by Burns's
mother, after her (Elizabeth's) own parents married other people. Nevertheless, as a weathered parent myself, I found this poem to be rather sweet and touching as it was written by a young, brand-new dad...and some things never change with the passing of the centuries.]
Thou's welcome, wean; mishanter fa' me,
If thoughts o' thee, or yet thy mammie,
Shall ever daunton me or awe me,
My sweet wee lady,
Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me
Tyta or daddie.
Tho' now they ca' me fornicator,
An' tease my name in countra clatter,
The mair they talk, I'm kend the better,
E'en let them clash;
An auld wife's tongue's a feckless matter
To gie ane fash.
Welcome! my bonie, sweet, wee dochter,
Tho' ye come here a wee unsought for,
And tho' your comin' I hae fought for,
Baith kirk and queir;
Yet, by my faith, ye're no unwrought for,
That I shall swear!
Sweet fruit o' monie a merry dint,
My funny toil is no a' tint,
Tho' thou cam to the warl' asklent,
Which fools may scoff at;
In my last plack thy part's be in't
The better ha'f o't.
Tho' I should be the waur bestead,
Thou's be as braw and bienly clad,
And thy young years as nicely bred
Wi' education,
As onie brat o' wedlock's bed,
In a' thy station.
Wee image o' my bonie Betty,
As fatherly I kiss and daut thee,
As dear and near my heart I set thee
Wi' as gude will
As a' the priests had seen me get thee
That's out o' hell.
Lord grant that thou may aye inherit
Thy mither's person, grace, an' merit,
An' thy poor, worthless daddy's spirit,
Without his failins,
'Twill please me mair to see thee heir it,
Than stockit mailens.
For if thou be what I wad hae thee,
And tak the counsel I shall gie thee,
I'll never rue my trouble wi' thee -
The cost nor shame o't,
But be a loving father to thee,
And brag the name o't.
EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND (MAY 1786)
[Context: Advice to a young friend named Andrew
Hunter Aiken, the son of another recipient of Burns's poetry dedications
(Robert Aiken, The Cotter's Saturday Night). Burns
demonstrates a familiarity with other literary works in this poem, including a
reference to Shakespeare's Hamlet. Offering counsel to a
friend that we, looking in the proverbial rearview mirror, might give to our
own, younger selves.]
I Lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend, A something to have sent you, Tho' it should serve nae ither end Than just a kind memento: But how the subject-theme may gang, Let time and chance determine; Perhaps it may turn out a sang: Perhaps turn out a sermon. Ye'll try the world soon, my lad; And, Andrew dear, believe me, Ye'll find mankind an unco squad, And muckle they may grieve ye: For care and trouble set your thought, Ev'n when your end's attained; And a' your views may come to nought, Where ev'ry nerve is strained. I'll no say, men are villains a'; The real, harden'd wicked, Wha hae nae check but human law, Are to a few restricked; But, Och! mankind are unco weak, An' little to be trusted; If self the wavering balance shake, It's rarely right adjusted! Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, Their fate we shouldna censure; For still, th' important end of life They equally may answer; A man may hae an honest heart, Tho' poortith hourly stare him; A man may tak a neibor's part, Yet hae nae cash to spare him. Aye free, aff-han', your story tell, When wi' a bosom crony; But still keep something to yoursel', Ye scarcely tell to ony: Conceal yoursel' as weel's ye can Frae critical dissection; But keek thro' ev'ry other man, Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection. The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love, Luxuriantly indulge it; But never tempt th' illicit rove, Tho' naething should divulge it: I waive the quantum o' the sin, The hazard of concealing; But , Och! it hardens a' within, And petrifies the feeling! To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, Assiduous wait upon her; And gather gear by ev'ry wile That's justified by honour; Not for to hide it in a hedge, Nor for a train attendant; But for the glorious privilege Of being independent. The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip, To haud the wretch in order; But where ye feel your honour grip, Let that aye be your border; Its slightest touches, instant pause Debar a' side-pretences; And resolutely keep its laws, Uncaring consequences. The great Creator to revere, Must sure become the creature; But still the preaching cant forbear, And ev'n the rigid feature: Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, Be complaisance extended; An atheist-laugh's a poor exchange For Deity offended! When ranting round in pleasure's ring, Religion may be blinded; Or if she gie a random sting, It may be little minded; But when on life we're tempest driv'n A conscience but a canker - A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n, Is sure a noble anchor! Adieu, dear, amiable youth! Your heart can ne'er be wanting! May prudence, fortitude, and truth, Erect your brow undaunting! In ploughman phrase, "God send you speed," Still daily to grow wiser; And may ye better reck the rede, Then ever did th' adviser!
NINE INCH WILL PLEASE A LADY
[Context: Y'all know what this is about. I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw this amidst beautiful works like the previous two samples I've given, but there aren't a lot of ways to interpret this...declaration. Anyway, I couldn't stop laughing because bros be bro-ing, since time immemorial.]
Come rede me, dame, come tell me, dame,
My dame, come tell me truly,
What length o' graith, when weel ca'd hame,
Will ser'e a woman duly?
The carlin clew her wanton tail,
Her wanton tail sae ready;
I learn't a sang in Annandale,
Nine inch will please a lady.
But for a countrie cunt like mine,
In sooth we're nae sae gentle;
We'll tak' twa thumb-bread to the nine,
And that's a sonsie pintle.
O leeze me on my Charlie lad!
I'll ne'er forget my Charlie!
Twa roarin' handfu' and a daud,
He nidg't it in fu' rarely.
But weary fa' the laithern doup,
And may it ne'er ken thrivin';
It's no the length that gars me loup,
But it's the double drivin'.
Come nidge me Tam, come nodge me Tam,
Come nidge me o'er the nyvle;
Come louse and lug your batterin' ram,
And thrash him at my gyvel.
Click here for a side-by-side translation of this work into English.
A softer side; a dose of nostalgia; a bawdy song for dudes. Three starkly different poems, all by the same writer. Whether he is doting on his little princess, offering advice to a young friend, or being gross, Robert Burns certainly has a way with words.
