Something Burns (A Virtual Burns Supper) Transcript (Scotland: A Scottish History Podcast)
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Scotland - A Scottish History Podcast
Episode 51 - Something Burns (A Virtual Burns Supper)
MICHAEL PARK: Hi everybody, it’s Michael.
If you’re heading out to a Burns Supper this year then... you probably shouldn’t be. There’s a deadly virus kicking around out there so have a wee one at home. Either with your friends, your family, your flatmate, your cat… or dog I guess… or have one on your own. I personally prefer to drink copious amounts of whisky on my own.
We figured that since this year is… different… we’d put together our very own wee Burns supper for you to use as you see fit. We’ve left out the toast to the lasses and the laddies… if you want one then maybe go back to our third episode ‘Third Degree Burns’ to get some perspective on our national bard’s attitude to women.
Enjoy!
To A Haggis
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!
Aboon them a' yet tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o'a grace
As lang's my arm.
The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin was help to mend a mill
In time o'need,
While thro' your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.
His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An' cut you up wi' ready sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like ony ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin', rich!
Then, horn for horn, they stretch an' strive:
Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
Bethankit! hums.
Is there that owre his French ragout
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad make her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckles as wither'd rash,
His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash;
His nieve a nit;
Thro' blody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!
But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread.
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll mak it whissle;
An' legs an' arms, an' hands will sned,
Like taps o' trissle.
Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer
Gie her a haggis!
ROBERT BURNS IMMORTAL MEMORY
It is 21st July 1801. In the little house where the Bard was born, nine of his friends and admirers gather for a meal in memory of their friend, taken from them in 1796 at the age of just 37.
The cottage in Alloway was warm, radiated with the low hanging sun of a summer’s evening - quite unlike the night the poet was born. They told of a horrible storm that blew that night, threatening the very thatch which nestled above your heads.
One of your number seems to be an expert on roofing and reckons the roof has been rethatched three or four times since then. He receives a good-natured clip round the ear. Nobody, and I mean nobody, likes a smart-alec.
The mood is a little sombre, remembering the loss of their comrade, their brother. A few make some remark about doing it again next year. You think probably switching it to his birthday might be a bit of a better idea.
After all, Rab didn’t really go in for melancholy. Even his melancholy poems and songs were tinged with a lightness, a humour. Even when his health was failing and a lot of his friends from the upper echelons of society had given up on him, he still had that wee sparkle in his writing.
Even when he was speaking about revolution in America and France, when he was espousing his belief that every man should be allowed to vote, there was mischief there. It wasn’t all doom and gloom - auld Burns could turn a room on his vim and vigour.
You suppose that’s part of the tragedy of being taken so young. He put so much of his time in his later years into working for the Excise, riding up and down from Dumfries on horseback supervising the work of excisemen up and down the coast. He had four young kids, this demanding job and he was still writing poetry and song. He was collecting them too, bringing together the most incredible troupes of traditional Scottish song.
To say it had become an obsession was probably an overstatement but at least it kept his mind from his previous dalliances. There are a few snorts in the room.
‘Previous dalliances’ was a polite way of saying cheating on Jean with anyone that looked at him twice.
Rab had always struggled with his mental health - described by the medical profession as hypochondria - but he was depressed, suffered from anxiety and was known to spiral when elements of his life got out of control.
For someone who had lived such a turbulent life, it wouldn’t have helped.
It wasn’t that which killed him though. In fact nobody’s entirely sure what it was, he suffered from a great many ailments towards the end of his life but when his wee four year old daughter died in the winter of 1795 he caught rheumatic fever.
He recovered and deteriorated in peaks and troughs. Eventually someone suggested that he should go and immerse himself in the Solway firth… as a cure.
Needless to say that didn’t work, although it probably killed him faster.
Maybe that was a small mercy...
So yeah, you all agree, much better to celebrate the fun-loving Burns with a glass of port in his hand and a song on his lips than the emaciated husk whose name couldn’t conjure enough book sales to support his family after he was gone.
The next Burns Supper, as you’d call it, would be in the calendar for 29th January 1802!
And then in 1803, when they’d discovered in the Parish records of Ayr when his actual birthday was, the 25th January!
———
What Burns supper would be complete without the words of the bard himself? We asked a few of our contributors to read some old favourites…
Anyone who isn’t Scottish might not be aware of the delight… and potential shame of having to memorise and recite Burns poems on stage in front of the whole school.
Jamie Mowat does. She won the Burns Cup at school, reading
To A Mouse
Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!
I'm truly sorry man's dominion,
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't!
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell-
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.
That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!
But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o' mice an 'men
Gang aft agley,
An'lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!
Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me
The present only toucheth thee:
But, Och! I backward cast my e'e.
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!
——
Here’s all-round man of music, Mitch Bain, reading
John Barleycorn
There was three kings into the east,
Three kings both great and high,
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.
They took a plough and plough'd him down,
Put clods upon his head,
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn was dead.
But the cheerful Spring came kindly on,
And show'rs began to fall;
John Barleycorn got up again,
And sore surpris'd them all.
The sultry suns of Summer came,
And he grew thick and strong;
His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears,
That no one should him wrong.
The sober Autumn enter'd mild,
When he grew wan and pale;
His bending joints and drooping head
Show'd he began to fail.
His colour sicken'd more and more,
He faded into age;
And then his enemies began
To show their deadly rage.
They've taen a weapon, long and sharp,
And cut him by the knee;
Then tied him fast upon a cart,
Like a rogue for forgerie.
They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgell'd him full sore;
They hung him up before the storm,
And turned him o'er and o'er.
They filled up a darksome pit
With water to the brim;
They heaved in John Barleycorn,
There let him sink or swim.
They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him farther woe;
And still, as signs of life appear'd,
They toss'd him to and fro.
They wasted, o'er a scorching flame,
The marrow of his bones;
But a miller us'd him worst of all,
For he crush'd him between two stones.
And they hae taen his very heart's blood,
And drank it round and round;
And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.
John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
Of noble enterprise;
For if you do but taste his blood,
'Twill make your courage rise.
'Twill make a man forget his woe;
'Twill heighten all his joy;
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing,
Tho' the tear were in her eye.
Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
Each man a glass in hand;
And may his great posterity
Ne'er fail in old Scotland!
——
And now the tale of Holy Willie, a rather oldish bachelor elder, in the parish of Mauchline, and much and justly famed for that polemical chattering, which ends in tippling orthodoxy, and for that spiritualized bawdry which refines to liquorish devotion. In a sessional process with a gentleman in Mauchline-a Mr. Gavin Hamilton-Holy Willie and his priest, Father Auld, after full hearing in the presbytery of Ayr, came off but second best; owing partly to the oratorical powers of Mr. Robert Aiken, Mr. Hamilton's counsel; but chiefly to Mr. Hamilton's being one of the most irreproachable and truly respectable characters in the county. On losing the process, the muse overheard him at his devotions, as follows:-
O Thou, who in the heavens does dwell,
Who, as it pleases best Thysel',
Sends ane to heaven an' ten to hell,
A' for Thy glory,
And no for ony gude or ill
They've done afore Thee!
I bless and praise Thy matchless might,
When thousands Thou hast left in night,
That I am here afore 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,
I wha deserve most just damnation
For broken laws,
Five thousand years ere my creation,
Thro' Adam's cause?
When frae my mither's womb I fell,
Thou might hae plunged me in hell,
To gnash my gums, to weep and wail,
In burnin 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, and example,
To a' Thy flock.
O Lord, Thou kens what zeal I bear,
When drinkers drink, an' swearers swear,
An' singin there, an' dancin here,
Wi' great and sma';
For I am keepit by Thy fear
Free frae them a'.
But yet, O Lord! confess I must,
At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust:
An' sometimes, too, in wardly 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 livin plague
To my dishonour,
An' I'll ne'er lift a lawless leg
Again upon her.
Besides, I farther maun allow,
Wi' Leezie's lass, three times I trow-
But Lord, that Friday I was fou,
When I cam near her;
Or else, Thou kens, Thy servant true
Wad never steer her.
Maybe Thou lets this fleshly thorn
Buffet Thy servant e'en and morn,
Lest he owre proud and high shou'd turn,
That he's sae gifted:
If sae, Thy han' 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,
An' blast their name,
Wha bring Thy elders to disgrace
An' public shame.
Lord, mind Gaw'n Hamilton's deserts;
He drinks, an' swears, an' plays at cartes,
Yet has sae mony takin arts,
Wi' great and 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,
An' set the warld in a roar
O' laughing at us;-
Curse Thou his basket and his store,
Kail an' potatoes.
Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray'r,
Against that Presbyt'ry o' Ayr;
Thy strong right hand, Lord, make it bare
Upo' their heads;
Lord visit them, an' dinna spare,
For their misdeeds.
O Lord, my God! that glib-tongu'd Aiken,
My vera heart and flesh are quakin,
To think how we stood sweatin', shakin,
An' p-'d wi' dread,
While he, wi' hingin lip an' snakin,
Held up his head.
Lord, in Thy day o' vengeance try him,
Lord, visit them wha did employ him,
And pass not in Thy mercy by 'em,
Nor hear their pray'r,
But for Thy people's sake, destroy 'em,
An' dinna spare.
But, Lord, remember me an' mine
Wi' mercies temp'ral an' divine,
That I for grace an' gear may shine,
Excell'd by nane,
And a' the glory shall be thine,
Amen, Amen!
AULD LANG SYNE
The end of a Burns Supper usually comes with a rousing, often drunken, rendition of Auld Lang Syne, a traditional song adapted by Burns which is - let’s face it - one of the most famous songs on earth so you don’t need me to tell you about it.
There are a lot of versions of the song kicking about the internet, but there’s only one that really captures what 2020 has meant to us… done to us… call it what you will.
Sung by a community of singers from Birmingham, Alabama, in a church which used to refuse to seat black people, this version is from a beautiful art film by 1504 called “For The Sake Of Old Times”.
We should never forget the past, even though we look forward to the future and hope that every day we move forward things become a little bit brighter.
At a time when it seems more difficult than ever to hope for a better tomorrow, it’s a powerful message: remember other people, look after each other… wear a mask.
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You’ve been listening to Scotland, it was written and produced by me, Michael Park and is a production of Be Quiet Media.
The music for every episode of Scotland is by the human book of love poetry, Mitch Bain, you can check out more of his work at mitchbain.bequiet.media.
Jamie Mowat does stunning illustrations for us which you can see in our episode art. See more and buy prints at tidlin - t i d l i n - .com.
Scotland is supported by Chris Lingwood and listeners like you on Patreon. You can get loads more from us for as little as two dollars at: patreon.com/scotlandhistorypodcast
You can find out more about the show on our website, scotlandpodcast.net and on twitter, facebook and instagram by searching Scotland - Scottish History Podcast.
Thanks for listening, we’ll see you next time.