The immortality of Burns

, Reading , C. David Dent ,

I have been asked this evening to discuss the Immortal memory of Robert Burns.  And while I am loathe to expound, within earshot, on such topics without preparation, I am going to do this, more or less, extemporaneously as the world has conspired to prevent this from happening.

Robert Burns was a farmer and later an exciseman – or tax collector.  It was not a "trade" that was admired by the common people and it would be fare to say that excisemen at this time were, to say the least, unpopular and that attitudes towards them were, shall we say, ambivalent.

He had had some minor success as the “ploughman poet” and had many important friends and influential acquaintances including the Earl of Glencairn.  Through favors and letters he was given the position of Exciseman of Dumphries.

But we are not here to toast the farmer or the exciseman. In fact, it is safe to say that Burns himself had little esteem for his own profession:

The deil cam fiddlin' thro' the town,
And danc'd awa wi' th' Exciseman,
And ilka wife cries, "Auld Mahoun,
I wish you luck o' the prize, man."

Chorus
The deil's awa, the deil's awa,
The deil's awa wi' the Exciseman,
He's danc'd awa, he's danc'd awa,
He's danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman.

We'll mak our maut, and we'll brew our drink,
We'll laugh, sing, and rejoice, man,
And mony braw thanks to the meikle black deil,
That danc'd awa wi' th' Exciseman.

Chorus

There's threesome reels, there's foursome reels,
There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man,
But the ae best dance ere came to the land
Was-the deil's awa wi' the Exciseman.

Robert Burns lived a simple life, cut short by illness.  He had little faith that he would be remembered as either a great man or be honored by his friends. He wrote in 1786 to his friend Gavin Hamilton, “For my own affairs, I am in a fair way of becoming as eminent as Thomas à Kempis, or John Bunyan; and you may expect henceforth to see my birthday inscribed among the wonderful events, in the Poor Robin and Aberdeen Almanacks, along with the Black Monday and the Battle of Bothwell-bridge.”

Burns lived out what was left of his short life in the employment of the Excise in Dumfries. Towards the end he had rather strangely been advised by his doctor and friend (Dr. Maxwell) that bathing in the sea on the Solway Firth would alleviate his problems.

All this did was hasten him to his grave. Robert Burns on 21 July 1796.  He was only thirty seven years and seven months old. (excerpt from Lament For James, Earl Of Glencairn)

'O, why has Worth so short a date, 

While villains ripen grey with time! 

Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great, 

Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime? 

Why did I live to see the day, 

A day to me so full of woe? 

O, had I met the mortal shaft 

Which laid my benefactor low! 



'The bridegroom may forget the bride 

Was made his wedded wife yestreen; 

The monarch may forget the crown 

That on his head an hour has been; 

The mother may forget the child 

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee; 

But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, 

And a' that thou hast done for me!

Burns was remembered by his friends and fans. But he was not thought of in the past tense like Shakespeare’s plays, or recalled dimly like a Kipling poem.  He was a participant present with a meal, an honorarium and recitations.  Clubs were formed to read poetry in his honor and to toast his memory.  Without trying, Robert Burns had spawned a formula for Immortality.

Friends + Entertainment + Duplication = Tradition. 

Tradition equals Immortality

Rabbie loved tradition, and so it should come as no surprise that his friends would have rallied to make a tradition around his life.  The first dinner was held in 1802 to memorialize the death of Robert Burns, but on Jan 29, 1805, in Paisley Scotland, the format was set. The “Dinner” (capital D) was born.

By his fiftieth birthday in 1809 there were already dozens of dinners being held around Scotland and England.  By 1859 the tradition was international with hundreds of dinners being held worldwide.  By 1909 there were thousands of events.  This year, the 250^th anniversary of his birth will be celebrated by hundreds of thousands of people.

But to give you some sense of how unchanged this tradition is, let me share "Address delivered at the celebration of the birth of Burns at the Paisley Burns Anniversary Society in the year 1805” originally Delivered by the President of the Paisley Burns Club, William McLaren.

Blah, blah, blah...You know it ends. (Wait for people to lower their glasses). Don't worry, there's not that much more to go.

This year, there is going to be a record set for the largest “Worldwide Toast” to Robert Burns.  Our group is one of thousands participating and we hope to be one small part of the attempt.  Please Stand.

To lend authority to this event, when we give the toast, we must say in unison “The Immortal Memory of Robert Burns”.  Ladies and Gentlemen, as it has been for over two hundred years... Please raise your glasses to…

“The Immortal Memory of Robert Burns.”

Care to Comment?

“To The Immortal Memory of Robert Burns – English Poet”

, Writing , C. David Dent ,

We have come here to celebrate the life and memory of Robert Burns, the Great English Poet.

{pause}

You may well moan and gnash your teeth in outrage, as many did this past year when the Library of Congress decided to reclassify the works of all Scottish and Irish literature under the blanket of English Literature. As the hero of Alloway said:

{without dialect}

"Now's the day, and now's the hour:
See the front o' battle lour,
See approach proud Edward's power -
Chains and slaverie!”

This tragedy isn’t so much about the loss of a national identity as it is about a complete misunderstanding about how important Robert Burns is to the identity of Scotland.

Burns stands as a giant among Scottish literature, not alone, but virtually without peer. The 19th-century scholar and educationalist J S Blackie summed up Burns' importance to Scotland and the Scots with the words:

'When Scotland forgets Burns, then history will forget Scotland.'

If I may be so bold, let me broaden that to say: When the world forgets that Burns is Scottish, then the world may well forget Scotland.

First Minister Jack McConnell (representative to the UN) stated:

“There is no doubt that Robert Burns was a great poet. His musings on love still have the power to move even the most cynical of hearts. No political philosopher has written more powerfully about class and politics as the ploughman poet. And the rollicking phrases and powerful images of the epic Tam O'Shanter are as exciting as any action movie of the 21st Century. “

Listen yourself to the words and judge:

{without dialect}

When Peddlers leave the streets,
And thirsty neighbors, their neighbors meet
As market days are wearing late
And folk begin to take the gate
While we sit drinking at the pub
And getting drunk and feeling smug
We think not of the long Scottish miles,
the mosses, water, mud and bogs,
which lie between us and home.
There sits our sulky sullen wife,
Gathering her brows like a gathering storm,
and nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth found honest Tam O’Shanter
As he fair Ayr all night did wander
Old Ayr, which no town excels,
for honest men and healthy girls.

Aside from the fact that it doesn’t completely rhyme its only literary merit is that it passes my computer’s spelling and grammar checking. How can those sterile and lifeless English words evoke the imagery of a real and tangible place as completely as the words Burns actually wrote?

{WITH dialect}

When chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neibors, neibors, meet;
As market days are wearing late,
And folk begin to tak the gate,
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An' getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Where sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter:
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonie lasses).

I think that the technology of computers, and Internet communications would have held no fear for Rabbie Burns. He would merely turn off the spell checker and curse:

{WITH dialect}

"O ye wha are sae guid yoursel, sae pious and sae holy, ye've nought to do but mark and tell your Neebour's fauts and folly!"

My spell checker has been thoroughly chastised. Robert Burns would laugh at the concept of his writing poems in English. Robert Burns wrote poems and songs in the language of life. He spoke with a voice that transcended the language. To categorize him as an English poet is to diminish his life and reduce it to merely the coincidence of his closest linguistic resemblance. Robert Burns was a Scot who wrote. How can that not be considered Scottish Literature?

Ultimately, the Library of Congress reversed its decision, restoring the heavens to their proper order and placing Scottish literature in its rightful place. But I will leave you with this little thought:

{WITH dialect}

What's a' your jargon o' your schools -
Your Latin names for horns and stools?
If honest nature made you fools,
What sairs your grammars?
Ye'd better ta'en up spades an' shools,
Or knappen hammers.
A set o' dull, conceited hashes
Confuse their brains in college classes!
They gang in stirks, an' come out asses,
Plain truth to speak;
An' syne they think to climb Parnassus
By din't o' Greek!

Had Burns stated in plain language that Scholars don’t know it all; we would be unimpressed and might even miss the delightful sarcasm. The mere fact that we have to listen carefully to discern the meaning means that we can hear the words, and capture the flavor of the message; even if the literature isn’t exactly “English”.

Care to Comment?