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Robert Burns: How To Know Him

Chapter 101: HALLOWEEN[4]
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About This Book

A biographical and critical study traces the poet's life from humble rural beginnings through successive farm, urban, and later phases, recounting personal circumstances while close-reading major lyrics, songs, satires, epistles, and narrative and descriptive poems. It examines his inheritance of dialect and folk-song, his methods of adapting traditional music, and his satirical and moral verse, with illustrative poem listings and commentary. Chapters move from biography to thematic and formal analysis and conclude with a summative evaluation of artistic achievement and legacy.

The twa best herds in a' the wast, pastors, west
That e'er ga'e gospel horn a blast gave
These five an' twenty simmers past—
Oh, dool to tell! sorrow
Hae had a bitter black out-cast quarrel
Atween themsel, Between

and he ends with the hope that if patronage could be abolished and the lairds forced to give

the brutes the power themsels
To chuse their herds,
Then Orthodoxy yet may prance,
An' Learning in a woody dance, gallows
An' that fell cur ca'd ‘common-sense,’
That bites sae sair, sorely
Be banish'd o'er the sea to France;
Let him bark there.

More light is thrown on Burns's positive attitude in religious matters by his Epistle to McMath, a young New Licht minister in Tarbolton. From the evidences of the letters, we are justified in accepting at its face value the profession of reverence for true religion made by Burns in this epistle; his hatred of the sham needs no corroboration.

TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH

Enclosing a Copy of Holy Willie's Prayer, which he had requested, September 17, 1785

While at the stook the shearers cow'r shock, reapers
To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r, driving
Or, in gulravage rinnin', scour; horseplay running
To pass the time,
To you I dedicate the hour
In idle rhyme.
My Musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet
On gown, an' ban', an' douce black-bonnet, sedate
Is grown right eerie now she's done it, scared
Lest they should blame her,
An' rouse their holy thunder on it,
And anathém her. curse

A further fling at orthodoxy appeared in The Ordination, a piece written to comfort the Kilmarnock liberals when an Auld Licht minister was selected for the second charge there. The tone is again one of ironical congratulation, and Burns describes the rejoicings of the elect with infinite zest. Two stanzas on the church music will illustrate his method.

Mak haste an' turn King David owre, open the Psalms
An' lilt wi' holy clangor; sing
O' double verse come gie us fourgive
An' skirl up the Bangor: shriek, a Psalm-tune
This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure, dust
Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her, No more
For Heresy is in her pow'r,
And gloriously she'll whang her thrash
Wi' pith this day.

Nae mair by Babel streams we'll weep,
To think upon our Zion;
And hing our fiddles up to sleep,hang
Like baby-clouts a-dryin';
Come, screw the pegs wi' tunefu' cheep, chirp
And o'er the thairms be tryin';strings
O, rare! to see our elbucks wheep, elbows jerk
And a' like lamb-tails flyin'
Fu' fast this day!

In the same ironical fashion he digresses in his Dedication to Gavin Hamilton to satirize the “high-fliers'” contempt for “cold morality” and for their faith in the power of orthodox belief to cover lapses in conduct.

The period within which these satires were written was short—1785 and 1786; but some three years later, on the prosecution of a liberal minister, Doctor McGill of Ayr, for the publication of A Practical Essay on the Death of Jesus Christ, which was charged with teaching Unitarianism, Burns took up the theme again. The Kirk's Alarm is a rattling “ballad,” full of energy and scurrilous wit, but, like many of its kind, it has lost much of its interest through the great amount of personal detail. A few stanzas will show that, even after his absence from local politics during his Edinburgh sojourn, he had lost none of his gusto in belaboring the Ayrshire Calvinists.

Orthodox, Orthodox, wha believe in John Knox,
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience:
There's a heretic blast has been blawn i' the wast,
That what is not sense must be nonsense.
Dr. Mac, Dr. Mac, you should stretch on a rack,
To strike evil-doers wi' terror;
To join faith and sense upon any pretence,
Is heretic, damnable error.

D'rymple mild, D'rymple mild, tho' your heart's like a child,
And your life like the new driven snaw,
Yet that winna save ye, auld Satan must have ye,
For preaching that three's ane and twa.
Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your sp'ritual guns,
Ammunition you never can need;
Your hearts are the stuff will be powther enough,
And your skulls are storehouses o' lead.

It was inevitable from the nature and purpose of these satirical poems that, however keen an interest they might raise in their time and place, a large part of that interest should evaporate in the course of time. Yet it would be a mistake to regard their importance as limited to raising a laugh against a few obscure bigots. The evils that Burns attacked, however his verses may be tinged with personal animus and occasional injustice, were real evils that existed far beyond the county of Ayr; and in the movement for enlightenment and liberation from these evils and their like that was then sweeping over Scotland, the wit and invective of the poet played no small part. The development that followed did, indeed, take a direction that he was far from foreseeing. The moderate party, which he supported, gradually gained the upper hand in the Kirk, and, upholding as it did the system of patronage, became more and more associated with the aristocracy who bestowed the livings. The result was that the moderate clergy degenerated under prosperity and lost their spiritual zeal; while their opponents, chastened by adversity, became the champions of the autonomy of the church, and, in the “ten years' conflict” that broke out little more than a generation after the death of Burns, showed themselves of the stuff of the martyrs. It would be impossible to trace the extent of the influence of the poet on the purging of orthodoxy or on the limitation of ecclesiastical despotism, since his work was in accord with the drift of the times; but it is fair to infer that, especially among the common people who were less likely to be reached by more philosophical discussion, his share was far from inconsiderable.

The poetical value of the satires is another matter. It may be questioned whether satire is ever essentially poetry, as poetry has been understood for the last hundred years. The dominant mood of satire is too antagonistic to imagination. But if we restrict our attention to the characteristic qualities of verse satire—vividness in depicting its object, blazing indignation or bitter scorn in its attitude, and wit in its expression, we shall be forced to grant that Burns achieved here notable success. Of the rarer power of satire to rise above the local, temporal, and personal to the exhibiting of universal elements in human life, there are comparatively few instances in Burns. The Address to the Unco Guid is perhaps the finest example; and here, as usually in his work, the approach to the general leads him to drop the scourge for the sermon.

In his tendency to preach, Burns was as much the inheritor of a national tradition as in any of his other characteristics. A strain of moralizing is well marked in the Scottish poets even before the Reformation, and, since the time of Burns, the preaching Scot has been notably exemplified not only in a professed prophet like Carlyle, but in so artistic a temperament as Stevenson. Nor did consciousness of his failures in practise embarrass Burns in the indulgence of the luxury of precept. Side by side with frank confessions of weakness we find earnest if not stern exhortations to do, not as he did, but as he taught. And as Scots have an appetite for hearing as well as for making sermons, his didactic pieces are among those most quoted and relished by his countrymen. The morally elevated but poetically inferior closing stanzas of The Cotter's Saturday Night are an instance in point; others are the morals appended to To a Mouse and To a Daisy, and to a number of his rhyming epistles.

These epistles are among the most significant of his writings for the reader in search of personal revelations. The Epistle to James Smith contains the much-quoted stanza on the poet's motives:

Some rhyme a neebor's name to lash;
Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needful cash;
Some rhyme to court the countra clash, gossip
An' raise a din;
For me, an aim I never fash; trouble about
I rhyme for fun.

Another gives his view of his equipment:

The star that rules my luckless lot,
Has fated me the russet coat,
An' damned my fortune to the groat;
But, in requit,
Has blest me with a random-shot
O' countra wit. country

Then he passes from literary considerations to his general philosophy of life:

But why o' death begin a tale?
Just now we're living sound an' hale;
Then top and maintop crowd the sail;
Heave Care o'er-side!
And large, before Enjoyment's gale,
Let's tak the tide.

When ance life's day draws near the gloamin,
Then fareweel vacant, careless roamin;
An' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin,
An' social noise:
An' fareweel dear, deluding Woman,
The joy of joys!

Here, as often, he contrasts his own reckless impulsive temper with that of prudent calculation:

With steady aim, some Fortune chase;
Keen Hope does ev'ry sinew brace;
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race,
And seize the prey:
Then cannie, in some cozie place, quietly
They close the day.
And others, like your humble servan',
Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin',
To right or left eternal swervin',
They zig-zag on;
Till, curst with age, obscure an' starvin',
They aften groan.

O ye douce folk that live by rule,
Grave, tideless-blooded, calm an' cool,
Compar'd wi' you—O fool! fool! fool!
How much unlike!
Your hearts are just a standing pool,
Your lives a dyke! stone wall

Nothing is more characteristic of the poet than this attitude toward prudence—this mixture of Intellectual respect with emotional contempt. He admits freely that restraint and calculation pay, but impulse makes life so much more interesting!

The Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet, deserves to be quoted in full. It contains the final phrasing of the central point of Burns's ethics, the Scottish rustic's version of that philosophy of benevolence with which Shaftesbury sought to warm the chill of eighteenth-century thought:

The heart aye's the part aye
That makes us right or wrang.

The mood of this poem is Burns's middle mood, lying between the black melancholy of his poems of despair and remorse and the exhilaration of his more exalted bacchanalian and love songs—the mood, we may infer, of his normal working life. We may again observe the correspondence between the change of dialect and change of tone in stanzas nine and ten, the increase of artificiality coming with his literary English and culminating in the unspeakable “tenebrific scene.” His humor returns with his Scots in the last verse.

EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET

The didactic tendency reaches its height in the Epistle to a Young Friend. Here there is no personal confession, but a conscious and professed sermon, unrelated, as the last line shows, to the practise of the preacher. It is, of course, only poetry in the eighteenth-century sense—

What oft was thought, but ne'er so well expressed—

and as such it should be judged. The critics who have reacted most violently against the attempted canonization of Burns have been inclined to sneer at this admirable homily, and to insinuate insincerity. But human nature affords every-day examples of just such perfectly sincere inconsistency as we find between the sixth stanza and Burns's own conduct; while not inconsistency but a very genuine rhetoric inspires the characteristic quatrain which closes the seventh.

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND

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; sort of
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, queer
And muckle they may grieve ye: much
For care and trouble set your thought,
Ev'n when your end's attainéd:
And a' your views may come to nought,
Where ev'ry nerve is strainéd.
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, extremely
An' little to be trusted;
If Self the wavering balance shake,
It's rarely right adjusted!

The general level of the rhyming letters of Burns is astonishingly high. They bear, as such compositions should, the impression of free spontaneity, and indeed often read like sheer improvisations. Yet they are sprinkled with admirable stanzas of natural description, shrewd criticism, delightful humor, and are pervaded by a delicate tactfulness possible only to a man with a genius for friendship. They are usually written in the favorite six-line stanza, the meter that flowed most easily from his pen, and in language are the richest vernacular. His ambition to be “literary” seldom brings in its jarring notes here, and indeed at times he seems to avenge himself on this besetting sin by a very individual jocoseness toward the mythological figures that intrude into his more serious efforts. His Muse is the special victim. Instead of the conventional draped figure she becomes a “tapetless, ramfeezl'd hizzie,” “saft at best an' something lazy;” she is a “thowless jad;” or she is dethroned altogether:

Again the tone is one of affectionate familiarity:

Leeze me on rhyme! It's aye a treasure, Blessings on
My chief, amaist my only pleasure; almost
At hame, a-fiel', at wark or leisure,
The Muse, poor hizzie,
Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure, homespun
She's seldom lazy.
Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie:
The warl' may play you monie a shavie, ill turn
But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye,
Tho' e'er sae puir; so poor
Na, even tho' limpin wi' the spavie spavin
Frae door to door!

Once more, half scolding, half flattering:

Ye glaikit, gleesome, dainty damies, giddy
Wha by Castalia's wimplin streamies winding
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies, Dance
Ye ken, ye ken,
That strang necessity supreme is
'Mang sons o' men.

The epigrams, epitaphs, elegies, and other occasional verses thrown off by Burns and diligently collected by his editors need little discussion. They not infrequently exhibit the less generous sides of his character, and but seldom demand rereading on account of their neatness or felicity or energy. One may be given as an example:

ON JOHN DOVE, INNKEEPER

Here lies Johnie Pigeon:
What was his religion
Whae'er desires to ken
In some other warl' world
Maun follow the carl Must, old fellow
For here Johnie Pigeon had none!
Strong ale was ablution;
Small beer, persecution;
A dram was memento mori;
But a full flowing bowl
Was the saving his soul,
And port was celestial glory!

CHAPTER V

DESCRIPTIVE AND NARRATIVE POETRY

The “world of Scotch drink, Scotch manners, and Scotch religion” was not, Matthew Arnold insisted, a beautiful world, and it was, he held, a disadvantage to Burns that he had not a beautiful world to deal with. This famous dictum is a standing challenge to any critic who regards Burns as a creator of beauty. It is true that when Burns took this world at its apparent worst, when Scotch drink meant bestial drunkenness, when Scotch manners meant shameless indecency, when Scotch religion meant blasphemous defiance, he created The Jolly Beggars, which the same critic found a “splendid and puissant production.” We must conclude, then, that sufficient genius can sublimate even a hideously sordid world into a superb work of art, which is presumably beautiful.

But the verdict passed on the Scottish world of Burns is not to be taken without scrutiny. A review of those poems of Burns that are primarily descriptive will recall to us the chief features of that world.

Let us begin with The Cotter's Saturday Night, Burns's tribute to his father's house. Let us discard the introductory stanza of dedication, as not organically a part of the poem. The scene is set in a gray November landscape. The tired laborer is shown returning to his cottage, no touch of idealization being added to the picture of physical weariness save what comes from the feeling for home and wife and children. Then follow the gathering of the older sons and daughter, the telling of the experiences of the week, and the advice of the father. The daughter's suitor arrives, and the girl's consciousness as well as the lover's shyness are delicately rendered. Two stanzas in English moralize the situation, and for our present purpose may be ignored. The supper of porridge and milk and a bit of cheese is followed by a reverent account of family prayers, the father leading, the family joining in the singing of the psalm. And as they part for the night, the poet is carried away into an elevated apostrophe to the country whose foundations rest upon such a peasantry, and closes with a patriotic prayer for its preservation.

The truth of the picture is indubitable. The poet could, of course, have chosen another phase of the same life. The cotter could have come home rheumatic and found the children squalling and the wife cross. The daughter might have been seduced, and the sons absent in the ale-house. But what he does describe is just as typical, and it is beautiful, though the manners and religion are Scottish.

Another social occasion is the subject of Halloween. The poem, with Burns's notes, is a mine of folk-lore, but we are concerned with it as literature. Here the tone is humorous instead of reverent, the characters are mixed, the selection is more widely representative. With complete frankness, the poet exhibits human nature under the influence of the mating instinct, directed by harmless, age-old superstitions. The superstitions are not attacked, but gently ridiculed. The fundamental veracity of the whole is seen when we realize that, in spite of the strong local color, it is psychologically true for similar festivities among the peasantry of all countries.

HALLOWEEN[4]

Upon that night, when fairies light
On Cassilis Downans[5] dance,
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, over, pastures
On sprightly coursers prance;
Or for Colean the rout is ta'en, road
Beneath the moon's pale beams;
There, up the Cove,[6] to stray an' rove
Amang the rocks and streams
To sport that night;
Amang the bonnie winding banks
Where Doon rins wimplin' clear, winding
Where Bruce[7] ance ruled the martial ranks once
An' shook his Carrick spear,
Some merry friendly country-folks
Together did convene
To burn their nits, an' pou their stocks, nuts, pull, stalks
An' haud their Halloween keep
Fu' blythe that night:
The lasses feat, an cleanly neat, trim
Mair braw than when they're fine; more handsome
Their faces blythe fu' sweetly kythe show
Hearts leal, an' warm, an' kin': loyal, kind
The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-babs love-knots
Weel knotted on their garten, garter
Some unco blate, an' some wi' gabs very shy, chatter
Gar lasses' hearts gang startin' Make
Whyles fast at night. Sometimes
Then, first and foremost, thro' the kail,
Their stocks[8] maun a' be sought ance: must, once
They steek their een, an' grape an' wale shut, eyes, grope, choose
For muckle anes an' straught anes. big ones, straight
Poor hav'rel Will fell aff the drift, foolish, lost the way
An' wander'd thro' the bow-kail, cabbage
An' pou'd, for want o' better shift, pulled, choice
A runt was like a sow-tail, stalk
Sae bow'd, that night. bent
Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane, earth
They roar an' cry a' throu'ther; pell-mell
The very wee things toddlin' rin—run
Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther; over, shoulder
An' gif the custock's sweet or sour, if, pith
Wi' joctelegs they taste them; pocket-knives
Syne coziely, aboon the door, Then, above
Wi' cannie care they've plac'd them cautious
To lie that night.
The lasses staw frae 'mang them a' stole
To pou their stalks o' corn;[9]
But Rab slips out, an' jinks about, dodges
Behint the muckle thorn:
He grippit Nelly hard an' fast;
Loud skirled a' the lasses; squealed
But her tap-pickle maist was lost, almost
When kiutlin' i' the fause-house[10] cuddling
Wi' him that night.
The auld guidwife's well-hoordit nits[11] well-hoarded nuts
Are round an' round divided,
An' mony lads' an' lasses' fates
Are there that night decided:
An' burn thegither trimly;
Some start awa, wi' saucy pride,
An' jump out-owre the chimlie out of the chimney
Fu' high that night.
An' aye she win't, an' aye she swat, wounded, sweated
I wat she made nae jaukin'; know, trifling
Till something held within the pat, kiln-pot
Guid Lord! but she was quaukin'!
But whether 'twas the Deil himsel,
Or whether 'twas a bauk-en', beam-end
Or whether it was Andrew Bell,
She did na wait on talkin
To spier that night. ask
Wee Jenny to her grannie says,
‘Will ye go wi' me, grannie?
I'll eat the apple[13] at the glass,
I gat frae uncle Johnie:’
She fuff't her pipe wi' sic a lunt, puffed, smoke
In wrath she was sae vap'rin,
She noticed na an aizle brunt cinder burnt
Her braw new worset apron worsted
Out-thro' that night.
‘Ye little skelpie-limmer's face! young hussy's
I daur you try sic sportin', dare
As seek the foul Thief ony place, Devil
For him to spae your fortune! tell
Great cause ye hae to fear it;
For mony a ane has gotten a fright,
An' lived an' died deleerit, delirious
On sic a night.
‘Our stibble-rig was Rab M'Graen, chief harvester
A clever, sturdy fallow;
His sin gat Eppie Sim wi' wean, son, child
That liv'd in Achmacalla;
He gat hemp-seed,[14] I mind it weel,
An' he made unco light o't: very
But mony a day was by himsel, beside himself
He was sae sairly frighted sorely
That vera night.’
Then up gat fechtin' Jamie Fleck, fighting
An' he swoor by his conscience
That he could saw hemp-seed a peck; sow
For it was a' but nonsense: merely
The auld guidman raught down the pock, reached, bag
An' out a handfu' gied him; gave
Syne bad him slip frae 'mang the folk, Then
Sometime when nae ane see'd him, saw
An' try't that night.
They hoy't out Will, wi' sair advice; urged
They hecht him some fine braw ane; promised
It chanced the stack he faddom'd thrice[16] measured with outstretched arms
Was timmer-propt for thrawin': against leaning over
He taks a swirlie auld moss-oak gnarled
For some black gruesome carlin; beldam
An' loot a winze, an' drew a stroke, uttered a curse
Till skin in blypes cam haurlin' shreds, peeling
Aff's nieves that night. Off his fists
A wanton widow Leezie was,
As cantie as a kittlin; lively
But och! that night, amang the shaws, woods
She gat a fearfu' settlin'!
She thro' the whins, an' by the cairn, gorse, stone heap
An' owre the hill gaed scrievin'; careering
Where three laird's lands met at a burn,[17]
To dip her left sark-sleeve in, shirt-
Was bent that night.
In order, on the clean hearth-stane,
The luggies[18] three are ranged;
And every time great care is ta'en,
To see them duly changed:
Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joys
Sin' Mar's year did desire, 1715 Rebellion
Because he gat the toom dish thrice, empty
He heav'd them on the fire
In wrath that night.
Wi' merry sangs, an' friendly cracks,
I wat they did na weary; wot
And unco tales, an' funny jokes,—strange
Their sports were cheap and cheery;
Till butter'd sow'ns,[19] wi' fragrant lunt, smoke
Set a' their gabs a-steerin'; tongues wagging
Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt, Then, liquor
They parted aff careerin'
Fu' blythe that night.

FOOT-NOTES TO HALLOWEEN

[The foot-notes to this poem are those supplied by Burns himself in the Kilmarnock edition.]