Robert Burns: How To Know Him

Come autumn sae pensive, in yellow and gray,

And soothe me wi' tidings o' nature's decay;

The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving snaw

Alane can delight me—now Nannie's awa.

Many poems are introduced with a note of the season, even when it has no marked relation to the tone of the poem. The Cotter's Saturday Night opens with

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;

The Jolly Beggars with

When lyart leaves bestrew the yird;

The Epistle to Davie with

While winds frae off Ben-Lomond blaw,

An' bar the doors wi' drivin' snaw,

though in this last case it is skilfully used to introduce the theme. These introductions are probably less imitations of the traditional opening landscape which had been a convention since the early Middle Ages, than the natural result of a plowman's daily consciousness of the weather.

For whether related organically to his subject or not, Burns's descriptions of external nature are to a high degree marked by actual experience and observation. Even remembering Thomson in the previous generation and Cowper and Crabbe in his own, we may safely say that English poetry had hardly seen such realism. Its quality will be conceived from a few passages. Take the well-known description of the flood from The Brigs of Ayr.

When heavy, dark, continued, a'-day rains, all-day

Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains;

When from the hills where springs the brawling Coil,

Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil,

Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course,

Or haunted Garpal draws his feeble source,

Arous'd by blust'ring winds an' spotting thowes, thaws

In mony a torrent down the snaw-broo rowes; melted snow rolls

While crashing ice, borne on the roaring spate, flood

Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate; way (to the sea)

And from Glenbuck, down to the Ralton-key,

Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd, tumbling sea;

Then down ye'll hurl, deil nor ye never rise! devil if

And dash the gumlie jaup up to the pouring skies! muddy splashes

Any reader familiar with Gavin Douglas's description of a Scottish winter in his Prologue to the twelfth book of the Æneid will be struck by the resemblance to this passage both in subject and manner. It is doubtful whether Burns knew more of Douglas than the motto to Tam o' Shanter, but from the days of the turbulent bishop in the early sixteenth century down to Burns's own time Scottish poetry had never lost touch with nature, and had rendered it with peculiar faithfulness. It is interesting to note that while The Brigs of Ayr is Burns's most successful attempt at the heroic couplet, and though it contains verses that must have encouraged his ambition to be a Scottish Pope, yet it is sprinkled with touches of natural observation quite remote from the manner of that master. Compare, on the one hand, such couplets as these:

Will your poor narrow foot-path of a street,

Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet,—

and

And tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn old age, sorely worn-out

I'll be a brig when ye're a shapeless cairn! heap of stones

and

Forms like some bedlam statuary's dream,

The craz'd creations of misguided whim;

and

As for your priesthood, I shall say but little,

Corbies and clergy are a shot right kittle; Ravens, sort, ticklish

couplets of which Pope need hardly have been ashamed, with such touches of nature as these:

Except perhaps the robin's whistling glee,

Proud o' the height o some bit half-lang tree:

and

The silent moon shone high o'er tow'r and tree:

The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam,

Crept, gently crusting, owre the glittering stream.

These examples of his power of exact, vigorous, or delicate rendering of familiar sights and sounds may be supplemented with a few from other poems.

O sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods, intervales

When lintwhites chant amang the buds, linnets

And jinkin' hares, in amorous whids, dodging, gambols

Their loves enjoy,

While thro' the braes the cushat croods coos

Wi' wailfu' cry!

Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me

When winds rave thro' the naked tree;

Or frost on hills of Ochiltree

Are hoary gray;

Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee,

Dark'ning the day!

Epistle to William Simpson.

Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays,

As thro' the glen it wimpled;

Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays;

Whyles in a wiel it dimpled;

Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays,

Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle;

Whyles cookit underneath the braes,

Below the spreading hazel,

Unseen that night.

Halloween.

Closely interwoven with Burns's feelings for natural beauty is his sympathy with animals. The frequency of passages of pathos on the sufferings of beasts and birds may be in part due to the influence of Sterne, but in the main its origin is not literary but is an expression of a tender heart and a lifelong friendly intercourse. In this relation Burns most often allows his sentiment to come to the edge of sentimentality, yet in fairness it must be said that he seldom crosses the line. Unlike many of his contemporaries, he had no need to force the note; it was his instinct both as a farmer and as a lover of animals to think, when he heard the storm rise, how it would affect the lower creation.

List'ning the doors and winnocks rattle, windows

I thought me on the ourie cattle, shivering

Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle onset

O' winter war,

And thro' the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle -sinking, scramble

Beneath a scar.

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing! Each hopping

That, in the merry months o' spring,

Delighted me to hear thee sing,

What comes o' thee?

Where wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing,

An' close thy e'e? eye

A Winter Night.

A number of his most popular pieces are the expression of this warm-hearted sympathy, a sympathy not confined to suffering but extending to enjoyment of life and sunshine, and at times leading him to the half-humorous, half-tender ascription to horses and sheep of a quasi-human intelligence. Were we to indulge further our conjectures as to what Burns might have done under more favorable circumstances, it would be easy to argue that he could have ranked with Henryson and La Fontaine as a writer of fables.

THE AULD FARMER'S NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS AULD MARE, MAGGIE.

On Giving Her the Accustomed Ripp of Corn to
Hansel in the New Yearwelcome with a present

A guid New-Year I wish thee, Maggie!

Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie: handful, belly

Tho' thou's howe-backit now, an' knaggie, hollow-backed, knobby

I've seen the day,

Thou could hae gane like ony staggie colt

Out-owre the lay. Across, lea

Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy, drooping

An' thy auld hide's as white's a daisie,

I've seen thee dappled, sleek, an' glaizie, glossy

A bonnie gray:

He should been tight that daur't to raize thee, excite

Ance in a day. Once

Thou ance was i' the foremost rank,

A filly buirdly, steeve, an' swank, stately, compact, limber

An' set weel down a shapely shank,

As e'er tread yird; earth

An' could hae flown out-owre a stank, pool

Like ony bird.

It's now some nine-an-twenty year,

Sin' thou was my guid-father's meere;

He gied me thee, o' tocher dear, as dowry

An' fifty mark;

Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear, wealth

An' thou was stark. strong

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny,

Ye then was trottin' wi' your minnie: mother

Tho' ye was trickie, slee, an' funnie, sly

Ye ne'er was donsie; unmanageable

But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie, tractable, good tempered

An' unco sonsie. very attractive

That day ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride much

When ye bure hame my bonnie bride; bore

An' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride,

Wi' maiden air!

Kyle-Stewart I could braggèd wide have challenged

For sic a pair.

Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hobble, can only halt

An' wintle like a saumont-coble, stagger, salmon-boat

That day ye was a jinker noble goer

For heels an' win'! wind

An' ran them till they a' did wobble

Far, far behin'.

When thou an' I were young and skeigh, skittish

An' stable-meals at fairs were driegh, dull

How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skriegh snort, neigh

An' tak the road!

Town's-bodies ran, and stood abeigh, aloof

An' ca't thee mad.

When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow, full of corn

We took the road aye like a swallow:

At brooses thou had ne'er a fellow wedding-races

For pith an' speed;

But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow,

Where'er thou gaed. went

The sma', drooped-rumpled hunter cattle, short-rumped

Might aiblins waur'd thee for a brattle; perhaps have beat, spurt

But sax Scotch miles, thou tried their mettle,

An' gart them whaizle; wheeze

Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle

O' saugh or hazel. willow

Thou was a noble fittie-lan', near horse of hindmost pair

As e'er in tug or tow was drawn! hide or tow traces

Aft thee an' I, in aucht hours gaun, eight, going

On guid March-weather,

Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han',

For days thegither.

Thou never braindg't, an' fetch't, an' fliskit, plunged, stopped, capered

But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,

An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket, chest

Wi' pith an' pow'r,

Till spritty knowes wad rair't and riskit, rooty hillocks, roared, cracked

An' slypet owre. fallen gently over

When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep,

An' threaten'd labour back to keep,

I gied thy cog a wee bit heap dish

Aboon the timmer; edges

I kenn'd my Maggie wad na sleep

For that, or simmer. ere

In cart or car thou never reestit; were restive

The steyest brae thou wad hae faced it; steepest

Thou never lap, an' stenned, an' breastit, leapt, jumped

Then stood to blaw;

But, just thy step a wee thing hastit,

Thou snoov't awa. jogged along

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a', plough-team, issue

Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw;

Forbye sax mae I've sell't awa Besides, more, away

That thou hast nurst:

They drew me thretteen pund an' twa,

The very warst. worst

Mony a sair darg we twa hae wrought, day's work

An' wi' the weary warl' fought!

An' mony an anxious day I thought

We wad be beat!

Yet here to crazy age we're brought,

Wi' something yet.

And think na, my auld trusty servan',

That now perhaps thou's less deservin',

An' thy auld days may end in starvin';

For my last fou, bushel

A heapit stimpart I'll reserve ane quarter-peck

Laid by for you.

We've worn to crazy years thegither;

We'll toyte about wi' ane anither; totter

Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether attentive, change

To some hain'd rig, reserved plot

Where ye may nobly rax your leather, stretch, sides

Wi' sma' fatigue.

To the evidence of Burns's warm-heartedness supplied by these kindly verses may appropriately be added the Address to the Deil. Burns's attitude to the supernatural we have already slightly touched on. Apart from the somewhat vague Deism which seems to have formed his personal creed, the poet's attitude toward most of the beliefs in the other world which were held around him was one of amused skepticism. Halloween and Tam o' Shanter show how he regarded the grosser rural superstitions; but the Devil was another matter. Scottish Calvinism had, as has been said, made him almost the fourth person in the Godhead; and Burns's thrusts at this belief are among the most effective things in his satire. In the present piece, however, the satirical spirit is almost overcome by kindliness and benevolent humor, and few of his poems are more characteristic of this side of his nature.

ADDRESS TO THE DEIL

O thou! whatever title suit thee,

Auld Hornie, Satan, Mick, or Clootie, Hoofie

Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie,

Clos'd under hatches,

Spairges about the brunstane cootie, Splashes, dish

To scaud poor wretches! scald

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, Hangman

An' let poor damnèd bodies be;

I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,

Ev'n to a deil,

To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, spank, scald

An' hear us squeal!

Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame;

Far kenn'd an' noted is thy name;

An', tho' yon lowin' heugh's thy hame, flaming pit

Thou travels far;

An' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame, backward

Nor blate nor scaur. shy, afraid

Whyles rangin' like a roarin' lion

For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin';

Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin',

Tirlin' the kirks; Stripping

Whyles, in the human bosom pryin',

Unseen thou lurks.

I've heard my reverend grannie say,

In lanely glens ye like to stray;

Or, where auld ruin'd castles gray

Nod to the moon,

Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way,

Wi' eldritch croon. weird

When twilight did my grannie summon

To say her pray'rs, douce, honest woman! sedate

Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin', beyond

Wi' eerie drone;

Or, rustlin', thro' the boortrees comin', elders

Wi' heavy groan.

Ae dreary windy winter night

The stars shot down wi' sklentin' light, squinting

Wi' you mysel I gat a fright

Ayont the lough; pond

Ye like a rash-buss stood in sight clump of rushes

Wi' waving sough. moan

The cudgel in my nieve did shake, fist

Each bristled hair stood like a stake,

When wi' an eldritch stoor ‘quaick, quaick,’ weird, harsh

Amang the springs,

Awa ye squatter'd like a drake

On whistlin' wings.

Let warlocks grim an' wither'd hags

Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags ragwort

They skim the muirs an' dizzy crags

Wi' wicked speed;

And in kirk-yards renew their leagues

Owre howkit dead. disturbed

Thence country wives, wi' toil an' pain,

May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain; churn

For oh! the yellow treasure's taen i.e., the butter

By witchin' skill;

An' dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie's gane petted, twelve-pint cow

As yell's the bill. dry, bull

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse

On young guidmen, fond, keen, an' crouse; husbands, cocksure

When the best wark-lume i' the house, tool

By cantrip wit, magic

Is instant made no worth a louse,

Just at the bit. crisis

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, thaws, hoard

An' float the jinglin' icy boord,

Then water-kelpies haunt the foord, -spirits

By your direction,

An' 'nighted travelers are allur'd

To their destruction.

An' aft your moss-traversing spunkies bog-, goblins

Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is:

The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkies

Delude his eyes,

Till in some miry slough he sunk is,

Ne'er mair to rise.

When masons' mystic word an' grip

In storms an' tempests raise you up,

Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, must

Or, strange to tell!

The youngest brither ye wad whip

Aff straught to hell. straight

Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard, ago, garden

When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd,

And all the soul of love they shar'd,

The raptur'd hour,

Sweet on the fragrant flow'ry swaird, sward

In shady bow'r;

Then you, ye auld snick-drawing dog! scheming

Ye cam to Paradise incog,

An' play'd on man a cursed brogue, trick

(Black be your fa!)

An' gied the infant warld a shog, shake

'Maist ruin'd a'.

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, flurry

Wi' reekit duds, an' reestit gizz, smoky rags, scorched wig

Ye did present your smoutie phiz smutty

'Mang better folk,

An' sklented on the man of Uz squinted

Your spitefu' joke?

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall,

An' brak him out o' house an' hal', holding

While scabs an' blotches did him gall

Wi' bitter claw,

An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd wicked scaul, loosed, scold

Was warst ava? of all

But a' your doings to rehearse,

Your wily snares an' fechtin' fierce, fighting

Sin' that day Michael did you pierce,

Down to this time,

Wad ding a' Lallan tongue, or Erse, heat, Lowland

In prose or rhyme.

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin', Hoofs

A certain Bardie's rantin', drinkin', roistering

Some luckless hour will send him linkin', hurrying

To your black pit;

But faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin', dodging

An' cheat you yet.

But fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben!

O wad ye tak a thought an' men'! mend

Ye aiblins might—I dinna ken—perhaps

Still hae a stake:

I'm wae to think upo' yon den,

Ev'n for your sake!

Somewhat akin in nature is Death and Doctor Hornbook. The purpose is personal satire, Doctor Hornbook being a real person, John Wilson, a schoolmaster in Tarbolton, who had turned quack and apothecary. The figure of Death is an amazingly graphic creation, with its mixture of weirdness and familiar humor; while the attack on Hornbook is managed with consummate skill. Death is made to complain that the doctor is balking him of his legitimate prey, and the drift seems to be complimentary; when in the last few verses it appears that in compensation Hornbook kills far more than he cures.