Robert Burns: How To Know Him

Hee balou! my sweet wee Donald, Lullaby

Picture o' the great Clanronald;

Brawlie kens our wanton chief Finely knows

Wha got my young Highland thief.

Leeze me on thy bonnie craigie! Blessings on, throat

An thou live, thou'll steal a naigie: If, little nag

Travel the country thro' and thro',

And bring hame a Carlisle cow.

Thro' the Lawlands, o'er the border,

Weel, my babie, may thou furder: succeed

Herry the louns o' the laigh countree, Harry, rascals, low

Syne to the Highlands hame to me. Then

Distinct from either of the foregoing groups are several songs in narrative form, told as a rule from the point of view of an onlooker, but hardly inferior to the others in vitality. In them the personal or dramatic emotion is replaced by a keen sense of the humor of the situation.

SCOTS, WHA HAE

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY, BEFORE THE BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,

Scots, wham Bruce has aften led,

Welcome to your gory bed

Or to victorie.

Now's the day, and now's the hour;

See the front o' battle lour!

See approach proud Edward's power—

Chains and slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor knave?

Wha can fill a coward's grave?

Wha sae base as be a slave?

Let him turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland's King and law

Freedom's sword will strongly draw,

Freeman stand, or freeman fa'?

Let him follow me!

By Oppression's woes and pains!

By your sons in servile chains!

We will drain our dearest veins,

But they shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low!

Tyrants fall in every foe!

Liberty's in every blow!

Let us do or die!

The other class of exceptions is the group of songs on Jacobite themes. The rebellion led by Prince Charles Edward in 1745 had produced a considerable quantity of campaign verse, almost all without poetic value; but after the turmoil had died down and the Stuart cause was regarded as finally lost, there appeared in Scotland a peculiar sentimental tenderness for the picturesque and unfortunate family that had sunk from the splendors of a throne that had been theirs for centuries into the sordid misery of royal pauperism. Burns, whose ancestors had been “out” in the '45, shared this sentiment, as Walter Scott later shared it, both realizing that it had nothing to do with practical politics. Out of this feeling there grew a considerable body of poetry, a poetry full of idealism, touched with melancholy, and atoning for its lack of reality by a richness of imaginative emotion. Burns led the way in this unique movement, and was worthily followed by such writers as Lady Nairne, James Hogg, and Sir Walter himself. He followed his usual custom of availing himself of fragments of the older lyrics, but as usual he polished the pebbles into jewels and set them in gold. Here are a few specimens of this poetry of a lost cause.

IT WAS A' FOR OUR RIGHTFU' KING

It was a' for our rightfu' King,

We left fair Scotland's strand;

It was a' for our rightfu' King,

We e'er saw Irish land,

My dear,

We e'er saw Irish land.

Now a' is done that men can do,

And a' is done in vain;

My love and native land farewell,

For I maun cross the main, must

My dear,

For I maun cross the main.

He turn'd him right and round about

Upon the Irish shore;

And gae his bridle-reins a shake, gave

With adieu for evermore,

My dear,

Adieu for evermore.

The sodger from the wars returns, soldier

The sailor frae the main;

But I hae parted frae my love,

Never to meet again,

My dear,

Never to meet again.

When day is gane, and night is come,

And a' folk bound to sleep,

I think on him that's far awa',

The lee-lang night, and weep, live-long

My dear,

The lee-lang night, and weep.

COME BOAT ME O'ER TO CHARLIE

Come boat me o'er, come row me o'er,

Come boat me o'er to Charlie;

I'll gie John Ross another bawbee, half-penny

To boat me o'er to Charlie.

We'll o'er the water, we'll o'er the sea,

We'll o'er the water to Charlie;

Come weal, come woe, we'll gather and go,

And live or die wi' Charlie.

I lo'e weel my Charlie's name, love

Tho' some there be abhor him:

But O, to see auld Nick gaun hame, going

And Charlie's faes before him! foes

I swear and vow by moon and stars,

And sun that shines so clearly,

If I had twenty thousand lives,

I'd die as aft for Charlie.

THE HIGHLAND LADDIE

The bonniest lad that e'er I saw,

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie,

Wore a plaid and was fu' braw, gaily dressed

Bonnie Highland laddie.

On his head a bonnet blue,

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie,

His royal heart was firm and true,

Bonnie Highland laddie.

Trumpets sound and cannons roar,

Bonnie lassie, Lawland lassie,

And a' the hills wi' echoes roar,

Bonnie Lawland lassie.

Glory, Honour, now invite,

Bonnie lassie, Lawland lassie,

For Freedom and my King to fight,

Bonnie Lawland lassie.

The sun a backward course shall take,

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie,

Ere aught thy manly courage shake,

Bonnie Highland laddie.

Go, for yoursel procure renown,

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie,

And for your lawful King his crown,

Bonnie Highland laddie!

BANNOCKS O' BARLEY

Bannocks o' bear meal, Cakes, barley

Bannocks o' barley;

Here's to the Highlandman's

Bannocks o' barley.

Wha in a brulzie broil

Will first cry a parley?

Never the lads wi'

The bannocks o' barley.

Bannocks o' bear meal,

Bannocks o' barley;

Here's to the lads wi'

The bannocks o' barley;

Wha in his wae-days woful-

Were loyal to Charlie?

Wha but the lads wi'

The bannocks o' barley.

KENMURE'S ON AND AWA

O, Kenmure's on and awa, Willie!

O, Kenmure's on and awa!

And Kenmure's lord's the bravest lord

That ever Galloway saw.

Success to Kenmure's band, Willie!

Success to Kenmure's band;

There's no a heart that fears a Whig

That rides by Kenmure's hand.

Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie!

Here's Kenmure's health in wine;

There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's blude, blood

Nor yet o' Gordon's line.

O, Kenmure's lads are men, Willie!

O, Kenmure's lads are men;

Their hearts and swords are metal true,

And that their faes shall ken.

They'll live or die wi' fame, Willie!

They'll live or die wi' fame;

But soon, wi' sounding victorie,

May Kenmure's lord come hame!

Here's him that's far awa, Willie!

Here's him that's far awa;

And here's the flower that I lo'e best—

The rose that's like the snaw!

THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL JAMIE COMES HAME

By yon castle wa', at the close of the day,

I heard a man sing, tho' his head it was grey:

And as he was singing, the tears down came—

‘There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

‘The church is in ruins, the state is in jars,

Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars;

We dare na weel say't, but we ken wha's to blame—

There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

‘My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, handsome

And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd; weep, churchyard

It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu' auld dame—

There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

‘Now life is a burden that bows me down,

Sin' I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown; lost, children

But till my last moment my words are the same—

There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.’

I HAE BEEN AT CROOKIEDEN

I hae been at Crookieden— Hell

My bonie laddie, Highland laddie!

Viewing Willie and his men— Duke of Cumberland

My bonie laddie, Highland laddie!

There our foes that burnt and slew—

My bonie laddie, Highland laddie!

There at last they gat their due—

My bonie laddie, Highland laddie!

Satan sits in his black neuk— corner

My bonie laddie, Highland laddie!

Breaking sticks to roast the Duke—

My bonie laddie, Highland laddie!

The bloody monster gae a yell— gave

My bonie laddie, Highland laddie!

And loud the laugh gaed round a' Hell— went

My bonie laddie, Highland laddie!

CHARLIE HE'S MY DARLING

'Twas on a Monday morning

Right early in the year,

That Charlie came to our town—

The Young Chevalier!

chorus

An' Charlie he's my darling,

My darling, my darling,

Charlie he's my darling—

The Young Chevalier!

As he was walking up the street

The city for to view,

O, there he spied a bonie lass

The window looking thro!

Sae light's he jumped up the stair,

And tirl'd at the pin; rattled

And wha sae ready as hersel'

To let the laddie in!

He set his Jenny on his knee,

All in his Highland dress;

And brawlie weel he kend the way

To please a bonie lass.

It's up yon heathery mountain

And down yon scraggy glen,

We daurna gang a-milking

For Charlie and his men!

Such in nature and origin are the songs of Burns. Of some three hundred written or rewritten by him, a large number are negligible in estimating his poetical capacity. One cause lay in his unfortunate ambition to write in the style of his eighteenth-century predecessors in English, with the accompanying mythological allusions, personifications, and scraps of artificial diction. Another was his pathetic eagerness to supply Thomson with material in his undertaking to preserve the old melodies—an eagerness which often led him to send in verses of which he himself felt that their only defense was that they were better than none. Thus his collected works are burdened with a considerable mass of very indifferent stuff. But when this has all been removed, we have left a body of song such as probably no writer in any language has bequeathed to his country. It is marked, first of all, by its peculiar harmony of expression with the utterance of the common people. Direct and simple, its diction was still capable of carrying intense feeling, a humor incomparable in its archness and sly mirth, and a power of idealizing ordinary experience without effort or affectation. The union of these words with the traditional melodies, on which we have so strongly insisted, gave them a superb singing quality, which has had as much to do with their popularity as their thought or their feeling. This union, however, has its drawbacks when we come to consider the songs as literature; for to present them as here in bare print without the living tune is to perpetuate a divorce which their author never contemplated. No editor of Burns can fail to feel a pang when he thinks that these words may be heard by ears that carry no echo of the airs to which they were born. Here lies the fundamental reason for what seems to outsiders the exaggerated estimate of Burns in the judgment of his countrymen. What they extol is not mere literature, but song, the combination of poetry and music; and it is only when Burns is judged as an artist in this double sense that he is judged fairly.

CHAPTER IV

SATIRES AND EPISTLES

Fame first came to Burns through his satires. Before he had been recognized by the Edinburgh litterateurs, before he had written more than a handful of songs, he was known and feared on his own countryside as a formidable critic of ecclesiastical tyranny. It was this reputation that made possible the success of the subscription to the Kilmarnock volume, and so saved Burns to Scotland.

Two characteristics of the Kirk of Scotland had tended to prepare the people to welcome an attack on its authority: the severity with which the clergy administered discipline, and the extremes to which they had pushed their Calvinism.

In spite of the existence of dissenting bodies, the great mass of the population belonged to the established church, and both their spiritual privileges and their social standing were at the mercy of the Kirk session and the presiding minister. It is difficult for a Protestant community to-day to realize the extent to which the conduct of the individual and the family were controlled by the ecclesiastical authorities. Offenses which now would at most be the subject of private remonstrance were treated as public crimes and expiated in church before the whole parish. Gavin Hamilton, Burns's friend and landlord at Mossgiel, a liberal gentleman of means and standing, was prosecuted in the church courts for lax attendance at divine service, for traveling on Sabbath, for neglecting family worship, and for having had one of his servants dig new potatoes on the Lord's day. Burns's irregular relations with Jean Armour led to successive appearances by both him and Jean before the congregation, to receive open rebuke and to profess repentance. Further expiation was demanded in the form of a contribution for the poor.

Against the discipline which he himself had to suffer Burns seems to have made no protest, and probably thought it just enough; but what he considered the persecution of his friend roused his indignation. This was all the fiercer as he regarded some of the members of the session as hypocrites, whose own private morals would not stand examination. Chief among these was a certain William Fisher, immortalized in a satire the application of which was meant to extend to the whole class which he represented.

HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER

Thou, that in the Heavens does dwell,

Wha, as it pleases best Thysel',

Sends ane to heaven and ten to hell,

A' for thy glory,

And no for ony guid or ill

They've done before thee!

I bless and praise thy matchless might,

Whan thousands thou hast left in night,

That I am here before thy sight,

For gifts an' grace

A burning and a shining light,

To a' this place.

What was I, or my generation,

That I should get sic exaltation? such

I, wha deserv'd most just damnation,

For broken laws,

Sax thousand years ere my creation, Six

Thro' Adam's cause.

When from my mither's womb I fell,

Thou might have plung'd me deep in hell,

To gnash my gooms, and weep and wail, gums

In burning lakes,

Where damned devils roar and yell,

Chain'd to their stakes;

Yet I am here a chosen sample,

To show Thy grace is great and ample;

I'm here a pillar o' Thy temple,

Strong as a rock,

A guide, a buckler, an example

To a' Thy flock.

But yet, O Lord! confess I must

At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust; troubled

An' sometimes too, in warldly trust,

Vile self gets in;

But Thou remembers we are dust,

Defil'd wi' sin.

O Lord! yestreen, Thou kens, wi' Meg—

Thy pardon I sincerely beg—

O! may't ne'er be a living plague

To my dishonour,

An' I'll ne'er lift a lawless leg

Again upon her.

Besides I farther maun avow— must

Wi' Leezie's lass, three times, I trow—

But, Lord, that Friday I was fou, drunk

When I cam near her,

Or else, Thou kens, thy servant true

Wad never steer her. meddle with

May be Thou lets this fleshly thorn

Beset Thy servant e'en and morn

Lest he owre high and proud should turn, too

That he's sae gifted;

If sae, Thy hand maun e'en be borne,

Until thou lift it.

Lord, bless Thy chosen in this place,

For here thou hast a chosen race;

But God confound their stubborn face,

And blast their name,

Wha' bring Thy elders to disgrace

An' public shame.

Lord, mind Gau'n Hamilton's deserts,

He drinks, an' swears, an' plays at cartes, cards

Yet has sae mony takin' arts

Wi' great an' sma',

Frae God's ain priest the people's hearts

He steals awa'.

An' when we chasten'd him therefor,

Thou kens how he bred sic a splore raised such a row

As set the warld in a roar

O' laughin' at us;

Curse thou his basket and his store,

Kail and potatoes!

Lord hear my earnest cry an' pray'r,

Against that presbyt'ry o' Ayr;

Thy strong right hand, Lord, make it bare

Upo' their heads;

Lord, visit them, and dinna spare, do not

For their misdeeds.

O Lord my God, that glib-tongu'd Aiken,

My very heart and soul are quakin',

To think how we stood sweatin', shakin',

An' pish'd wi' dread,

While he, wi' hingin' lips and snakin', sneering

Held up his head.

Lord, in Thy day of vengeance try him;

Lord, visit him wha did employ him,

And pass not in Thy mercy by them,

Nor hear their pray'r:

But, for Thy people's sake, destroy them,

And dinna spare.

But, Lord, remember me and mine

Wi' mercies temporal and divine,

That I for grace and gear may shine wealth

Excell'd by nane,

And a' the glory shall be thine,

Amen, Amen!

Still more highly generalized is his Address to the Unco Guid, a plea for charity in judgment, kept from sentimentalism by its gleam of humor. It has perhaps the widest appeal of any of his poems of this class. One may note that as Burns passes from the satirical and humorous tone to the directly didactic, the dialect disappears, and the last two stanzas are practically pure English.