In the best work of the world’s most representative poet, every word can sound like an effusion of pure spirit. And who could mistake Burns’s genius when they encounter his beautiful lyric ‘Green Grow the Rashes’? He once introduced it by saying the song was written in ‘the genuine language of my heart’. A hymn to spontaneous affection over worldly desires, there is nothing else like it. I once knew a retired Ayrshire sailor, Mr Savage. I remember him singing this song one morning as he made his way along the seafront in the town of Saltcoats. The Firth of Clyde appeared to calm itself at the sound of the old man’s voice, as he sang this lilting memorial to a great and simple sentiment.
CHORUS
Green grow the rashes, O;
Green grow the rashes, O;
The sweetest hours that e’er I spend,
Are spent amang the lasses, O.
There’s nought but care on ev’ry han’,
In ev’ry hour that passes, O:
What signifies the life o’ man,
An’ ’twere na for the lasses, O.
Green grow, &c.
The warly race may riches chase,
An’ riches still may fly them, O;
An’ tho’ at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne’er enjoy them, O.
Green grow, &c.
But gie me a canny hour at e’en,
My arms about my Dearie, O;
An’ warly cares, an’ warly men,
May a’ gae tapsalteerie, O!
Green grow, &c.
For you sae douse, ye sneer at this,
Ye’re nought but senseless asses, O:
The wisest Man the warl’ saw,
He dearly lov’d the lasses, O.
Green grow, &c.
Auld Nature swears, the lovely Dears
Her noblest work she classes, O:
Her prentice han’ she try’d on man,
An’ then she made the lasses, O.
Green grow, &c.
One can practically see the yellow light at the window of the dance-hall and feel the pulse of romantic hope, a new and lively element in the blood. And here she is, Mary Morison – as ‘the dance gaed through the lighted ha” – and we are caught immediately in the drama of her specialness. There is a grave in Mauchline churchyard to ‘the poet’s bonnie Mary Morison, who died on 29 June 1791, aged 20’. Mary is a ghost among the drinking glasses, yet forever alive in the flow of these images.
O Mary, at thy window be,
It is the wish’d, the trysted hour;
Those smiles and glances let me see,
That make the miser’s treasure poor:
How blythely wad I bide the stoure,
A weary slave frae sun to sun;
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison!
Yestreen when to the trembling string
The dance gaed through the lighted ha’,
To thee my fancy took its wing,
I sat, but neither heard, nor saw:
Though this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a’ the town,
I sigh’d, and said amang them a’,
‘Ye are na Mary Morison.’
O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die!
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faute is loving thee!
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown;
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o’ Mary Morison.
I wrote part of my first novel, Our Fathers, in the west of Ireland, alone in a house by the sea in County Cork. After dark, a regular beam of light from the Fastnet lighthouse would fall over the bed and I woke there one night with a weathered thought. It was to do with the Irish who had left for Scotland years before. I went back to my desk and wrote some lines about the main character’s father, Tam. He ‘once wrote a letter to a cousin in Ireland, saying that he only stuck to the farm because of Robert Burns. “My habits are bad in the field,” he wrote, “but never mind, there’s something to see in the battle for stuff over here, with the thought of the poet’s hand there beside you.”’ Tam then goes to the Ayrshire madhouse at Glengall and sings ‘The Belles of Mauchline’ to his sick wife, and he kisses her.
In Mauchline there dwells six proper young Belles,
The pride of the place and its neighbourhood a’,
Their carriage and dress a stranger would guess,
In Lon’on or Paris they’d gotten it a’:
Miss Miller is fine, Miss Murkland’s divine,
Miss Smith she has wit and Miss Betty is braw;
There’s beauty and fortune to get wi’ Miss Morton,
But ARMOUR’S the jewel for me o’ them a’.—
Burns had intended to emigrate with Mary Campbell to Jamaica, but she died in Greenock before they could leave. Each of Burns’s lasses has a skirl of the country dance-hall about her and a scent of the Ayrshire fields, but not Mary. We imagine her spirit mingled with high foreign hopes and sea salt, caught up in the Atlantic roar.
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary,
And leave auld Scotia’s shore;
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary,
Across th’ Atlantic roar.
O sweet grows the lime and the orange
And the apple on the pine;
But a’ the charms o’ the Indies
Can never equal thine.
I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary,
I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true;
And sae may the Heavens forget me,
When I forget my vow!
O plight me your faith, my Mary,
And plight me your lily-white hand;
O plight me your faith, my Mary,
Before I leave Scotia’s strand.
We hae plighted our truth, my Mary,
In mutual affection to join:
And curst be the cause that shall part us,
The hour, and the moment o’ time!!!
A love poem is a sudden encounter with one’s own capacity for wonder; it is a settlement of joy amid the complications of affection. ‘A lyric poem,’ writes James Fenton, ‘expresses an intense feeling of the moment. It is all about the subjective, all about the here and now. It is not – alas, for the loved one – a contract, or a prenuptial agreement.’
Of a’ the airts the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the West;
For there the bony Lassie lives,
The Lassie I lo’e best:
There’s wild-woods grow, and rivers row,
And mony a hill between;
But day and night my fancy’s flight
Is ever wi’ my Jean.—
I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair;
I hear her in the tunefu’ birds,
I hear her charm the air:
There’s not a bony flower, that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green;
There’s not a bony bird that sings
But minds me o’ my Jean.—
I once sang this song in a gymnasium filled to the summit of the wall bars with tittering Ayrshire schoolchildren. It was St Luke’s Primary School in the spring of 1978, and Mrs Ferguson, the headmistress, had decided there was only one boy for the job. I can still see my blushing face beside the old piano, and Fergie’s vaguely nationalistic smile as she thumped the keys and nodded me in with a skoosh of pride. It wasn’t entirely easy – aged ten – to conjure up my troubles with the saucy lasses, but from the corner of my eye I saw the girls coming into the gym ready for Jacqueline Thompson’s ballet class, due to begin as soon as the Burns was over. The lasses were all hair-buns and slipperettes, and I know my voice lifted and reached out to meet the loveliness of their wicked faces.
My love she’s but a lassie yet,
My love she’s but a lassie yet;
We’ll let her stand a year or twa,
She’ll no be half sae saucy yet.—
I rue the day I sought her O,
I rue the day I sought her O,
Wha gets her needs na say he’s woo’d,
But he may say he’s bought her O.—
Come draw a drap o’ the best o’t yet,
Come draw a drap o’ the best o’t yet:
Gae seek for Pleasure whare ye will,
But here I never misst it yet.—
We’re a’ dry wi’ drinkin o’t,
We’re a’ dry wi’ drinkin o’t:
The minister kisst the fidler’s wife,
He could na preach for thinkin o’t.—
Robert Burns saw love as an expression of natural freedom, but he understood well enough that it might also be experienced as a mode of performance. In Edinburgh, he fell for a married lady, Agnes McLehose, or Nancy, who lived alone in Potter Row, and he turned their brief affair into a sometimes rapturous drama of drawing-room manners. They took arcadian names, Clarinda and Sylvander, and played their respective parts in a way that offered no great insult to sincerity. ‘Ae Fond Kiss’ is proof of that: the final stanza, said Walter Scott, ‘contains the essence of a thousand love tales’.
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae fareweel, and then for ever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee.—
Who shall say that Fortune grieves him,
While the star of hope she leaves him:
Me, nae chearful twinkle lights me;
Dark despair around benights me.—
I’ll ne’er blame my partial fancy,
Naething could resist my Nancy:
But to see her, was to love her;
Love but her, and love for ever.—
Had we never lov’d sae kindly,
Had we never lov’d sae blindly!
Never met—or never parted,
We had ne’er been broken-hearted.—
Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest!
Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest!
Thine be ilka joy and treasure,
Peace, Enjoyment, Love and Pleasure!—
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever!
Ae fareweel, Alas, for ever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee.—
Abirk is a silver birch tree. It has a talent for growing in poor soil and a lifespan between sixty and ninety years. The bark is usually white and smooth, the twigs are waxy, and fresh green foliage appears to dress the trees in spring. The unobtrusive flowers appear in April and the small fruits in June.
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, I’ll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Thou stock dove whose echo resounds thro’ the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green crested lapwing thy screaming forbear,
I charge you disturb not my slumbering Fair.
How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,
Far mark’d with the courses of clear, winding rills;
There daily I wander as noon rises high,
My flocks and my Mary’s sweet Cot in my eye.
How pleasant thy banks and green vallies below,
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow;
There oft as mild ev’ning weeps over the lea,
The sweet scented birk shades my Mary and me.
Thy chrystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear wave.
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, sweet River, the theme of my lays;
My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Kenneth McKellar sings it with the sonority of the truly smitten. Peter Morrison sings it more expansively, as if he were gathering the earth’s purest elements into a single song. Jean Redpath sings it as if she were reaching gently for the impossible and Ed Miller sings it wistfully, as if he were addressing a girl from a passing train. Eddi Reader brings to it a beautiful native airiness and Robert Wilson packs it with regret. Peter McCutcheon sings it as if through a fog of self-involvement and Carly Simon as if she were California dreaming. Davy Steele brings it home, investing the words with a simple belief and a show of love. But though Burns had many lasses, for me there can only be one – Mrs McGrath, a traditional Scottish singer, whose unaccompanied version is a wonderful feat of intimacy. She sings as if she intended the song for oneself alone.
O my Luve’s like a red, red rose,
That’s newly sprung in June;
O my Luve’s like the melodie
That’s sweetly play’d in tune.—
As fair art thou, my bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will love thee still, my Dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.—
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my Dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun:
I will love thee still, my Dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.—
And fare thee weel, my only Luve!
And fare thee weel, a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho’ it were ten thousand mile!
As Burns lay dying at his house, the Mill Vennel at Dumfries, a girl who lived across the road would come each day to comfort him and assist his wife. Her name was Jessy Lewars and she played the harpsichord, causing Burns to ponder her sweetness and imagine himself in love with her.
Oh wert thou in the cauld blast,
On yonder lea, on yonder lea;
My plaidie to the angry airt,
I’d shelter thee, I’d shelter thee:
Or did misfortune’s bitter storms
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield should be my bosom,
To share it a’, to share it a’.
Or were I in the wildest waste,
Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,
The desart were a paradise,
If thou wert there, if thou wert there.
Or were I monarch o’ the globe,
Wi’ thee to reign, wi’ thee to reign;
The brightest jewel in my crown,
Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.
The summer is gone and the lasses with it, but Burns was minded to dwell on the beauty and promise of the young. He is to me the poet of human growth. And here we have it: the pride felt by Mary Ann at the sight of her laddie is also a mark of trust in the power of regeneration. Leaves may fall, but only to compost the wide earth, and better days lie ahead. At Eglinton Park in Kilwinning I once found these words written on a sheet of paper and stuffed between a crack in the rocks.
O Lady Mary Ann looks o’er the castle-wa’,
She saw three bonie boys playing at the ba’,
The youngest he was the flower amang them a’,
My bonie laddie’s young but he’s growin yet.—
O Father, O Father, an ye think it fit,
We’ll send him a year to the College yet,
We’ll sew a green ribban round about his hat,
And that will let them ken he’s to marry yet.—
Lady Mary Ann was a flower in the dew,
Sweet was its smell and bonie was its hue,
And the langer it blossom’d, the sweeter it grew,
For the lily in the bud will be bonier yet.—
Young Charlie Cochran was the sprout of an aik,
Bonie, and bloomin and straught was its make,
The sun took delight to shine for its sake,
And it will be the brag o’ the forest yet.—
The Simmer is gane when the leaves they were green,
And the days are awa that we hae seen,
But far better days I trust will come again,
For my bonie laddie’s young but he’s growin yet.—
Burns had thirteen children and was able to cast the best of what he felt for their mothers – those lively sweetheart lasses – as beneficent light on the little ones, in every case honouring the joy of their conception. With the servant-girl Betsy Paton he had his first daughter, Betty, whom he welcomes into her role as the apple of her father’s eye.
Thou’s welcome, Wean! Mischanter fa’ me,
If thoughts o’ thee, or yet thy Mamie,
Shall ever daunton me or awe me,
My bonie lady;
Or if I blush when thou shalt ca’ me
Tyta, or Daddie.—
Tho’ now they ca’ me, Fornicator,
And tease my name in kintra clatter,
The mair they talk, I’m kend the better;
E’en let them clash!
An auld wife’s tongue’s a feckless matter
To gie ane fash.—
Welcome! My bonie, sweet, wee Dochter!
Tho’ ye come here a wee unsought for;
And tho’ your comin I hae fought for,
Baith Kirk and Queir;
Yet by my faith, ye’re no unwrought for,
That I shall swear!
As fatherly I kiss and daut thee,
As dear and near my heart I set thee,
Wi’ as gude will,
As a’ the Priests had seen me get thee
That’s out o’ hell.—
Sweet fruit o’ monie a merry dint,
My funny toil is no a’ tint;
Tho’ ye come to the warld asklent,
Which fools may scoff at,
In my last plack thy part’s be in’t,
The better half o’t.—
Tho’ I should be the waur bestead,
Thou’s be as braw and bienly clad,
And thy young years as nicely bred
Wi’ education,
As ony brat o’ Wedlock’s bed,
In a’ thy station.—
Lord grant that thou may ay inherit
Thy Mither’s looks an’ gracefu’ merit;
An’ thy poor, worthless Daddie’s spirit,
Without his failins!
’Twad please me mair to see thee heir it
Than stocked mailins!
For if thou be, what I wad hae thee,
And tak the counsel I shall gie thee,
I’ll never rue my trouble wi’ thee,
The cost nor shame o’t,
But be a loving Father to thee,
And brag the name o’t.—
My daughter was born in a room of smiles that stands above the London traffic. And late that night, as her mother slept and the ward stood quiet with its vases of flowers, I carried Nell to a room of cots and washed her in a bath of warm water. The miracle was her face and the sound of the ticking clock: could we hear the trees that shushed in Regent’s Park at that ungodly hour? My daughter smiled and looked straight up as her father stumbled to promise her heaven and earth. In that dark room, I tilted our baby in the water tray as if she were a developing print of an old photograph. Her vital toes pawed the air. At last every inch of her was clear to me and I kissed her as I wrapped her in a towel, reciting the words of Robert Burns’s first poem.
O once I lov’d a bonnie lass,
An’ aye I love her still,
An’ whilst that virtue warms my breast
I’ll love my handsome Nell.
As bonnie lasses I hae seen,
And mony full as braw,
But for a modest gracefu’ mein
The like I never saw.
A bonny lass I will confess,
Is pleasant to the e’e,
But without some better qualities
She’s no a lass for me.
But Nelly’s looks are blythe and sweet,
And what is best of a’,
Her reputation is compleat,
And fair without a flaw;
She dresses ay sae clean and neat,
Both decent and genteel;
And then there’s something in her gait
Gars ony dress look weel.
May slightly touch the heart,
But it’s innocence and modesty
That polishes the dart.
’Tis this in Nelly pleases me,
’Tis this enchants my soul;
For absolutely in my breast
She reigns without control.