Anoble tradition in Scottish poetry involves the use of animal monologues for comical and political purposes, and Burns sought to advance that tradition in the Kilmarnock edition. His own favourite poet, Robert Fergusson, had used this form in ‘The Sow of Feeling’ (1773), but Burns must also have been aware of Aesop’s blethering dogs and Henryson’s Fables, as well as Swift’s talking horses. We often find these animals can look at human nature as human nature is seldom capable of looking at itself, and the resulting poems, when as well done as this one, are masterpieces of the literary art.
As Mailie, an’ her lambs thegither,
Was ae day nibbling on the tether,
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch,
An’ owre she warsl’d in the ditch:
There, groaning, dying, she did ly,
When Hughoc he cam doytan by.
Wi’ glowrin een, an’ lifted han’s,
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan’s;
He saw her days were near hand ended,
But, waes my heart! he could na mend it!
He gaped wide, but naething spak,
At length poor Mailie silence brak.
‘O thou, whase lamentable face
Appears to mourn my woefu’ case!
My dying words attentive hear,
An’ bear them to my Master dear.
‘Tell him, if e’er again he keep
As muckle gear as buy a sheep,
O, bid him never tye them mair,
Wi’ wicked strings o’ hemp or hair!
But ca’ them out to park or hill,
An’ let them wander at their will:
So, may his flock increase an’ grow
To scores o’ lambs, an’ packs of woo’!
‘Tell him, he was a Master kin’,
An’ ay was guid to me an’ mine;
An’ now my dying charge I gie him,
My helpless lambs, I trust them wi’ him.
‘O, bid him save their harmless lives,
Frae dogs an’ tods, an’ butchers’ knives!
But gie them guid cow-milk their fill,
Till they be fit to fend themsel;
An’ tent them duely, e’en an’ morn,
Wi’ taets o’ hay an’ ripps o’ corn.
‘An’ may they never learn the gaets,
Of ither vile, wanrestfu’ Pets!
To slink thro’ slaps, an’ reave an’ steal,
At stacks o’ pease, or stocks o’ kail.
So may they, like their great forbears,
For monie a year come thro’ the sheers:
So wives will gie them bits o’ bread,
An’ bairns greet for them when they’re dead.
‘My poor toop-lamb, my son an’ heir,
O, bid him breed him up wi’ care!
An’ if he live to be a beast,
To pit some havins in his breast!
An’ warn him, what I winna name,
To stay content wi’ yowes at hame;
An’ no to rin an’ wear his cloots,
Like ither menseless, graceless brutes.
‘An’ neist my yowie, silly thing,
Gude keep thee frae a tether string!
O, may thou ne’er forgather up,
Wi’ onie blastet, moorlan toop;
But ay keep mind to moop an’ mell,
Wi’ sheep o’ credit like thysel!
‘And now, my bairns, wi’ my last breath,
I lea’e my blessin wi’ you baith:
An’ when ye think upo’ your Mither,
Mind to be kind to ane anither.
‘Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail,
To tell my Master a’ my tale;
An’ bid him burn this cursed tether,
An’ for thy pains thou’se get my blather.’
This said, poor Mailie turn’d her head,
An’ clos’d her een amang the dead!
There are also a growing number of larger-scale private enterprises in the Chinese countryside, generating for their owners profits that dwarf by many magnitudes the ‘fortunes’ for which ‘evil landlords’ of the old society were submitted to revolutionary justice. Substantial fortunes make it possible, among other things, for some individuals to flaunt population controls by paying the fines for having larger families with impunity; this is among the more serious of the contradictions that rural industry has brought in its wake. Increased polarisation of classes in the rural areas is a serious problem in its own right.
Anthropology and the Global Factory: Studies of the New Industrialization in the Late Twentieth Century, edited by Frances Abrahamer Rothstein and Michael L. Blim
’Twas in that place o’ Scotland’s isle,
That bears the name o’ auld king Coil,
Upon a bonie day in June,
When wearing thro’ the afternoon,
Twa Dogs, that were na thrang at hame,
Forgather’d ance upon a time.
The first I’ll name, they ca’d him Ceasar,
Was keepet for His Honor’s pleasure;
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,
Show’d he was nane o’ Scotland’s dogs;
But whalpet some place far abroad,
Whare sailors gang to fish for Cod.
His locked, letter’d, braw brass-collar,
Show’d him the gentleman an’ scholar;
But tho’ he was o’ high degree,
The fient a pride na pride had he,
But wad hae spent an hour caressan,
Ev’n wi’ a’ Tinkler-gipsey’s messan:
At Kirk or Market, Mill or Smiddie,
Nae tawtied tyke, tho’ e’er sae duddie,
But he wad stan’t, as glad to see him,
An’ stroan’t on stanes an’ hillocks wi’ him.
The tither was a ploughman’s collie,
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie,
Wha for his friend an’ comrade had him,
And in his freaks had Luath ca’d him;
After some dog in Highlan Sang,
Was made lang syne, lord knows how lang.
He was a gash an’ faithfu’ tyke,
As ever lap a sheugh, or dyke!
His honest sonsie, baws’nt face,
Ay gat him friends in ilka place;
His breast was white, his towzie back,
Weel clad wi’ coat o’ glossy black;
His gawsie tail, wi’ upward curl,
Hung owre his hurdies wi’ a swirl.
Nae doubt but they were fain o’ ither,
An’ unco pack an’ thick the gither;
Wi’ social nose whyles snuff’d an’ snowcket;
Whyles mice an’ modewurks they howcket;
Whyles scour’d awa in lang excursion,
An’ worry’d ither in diversion;
Untill wi’ daffin weary grown,
Upon a knowe they sat them down,
An’ there began a lang digression
About the lords o’ the creation.
I’ve aften wonder’d, honest Luath,
What sort o’ life poor dogs like you have;
An’ when the gentry’s life I saw,
What way poor bodies liv’d ava.
Our Laird gets in his racked rents,
His coals, his kane, an’ a’ his stents;
He rises when he likes himsel;
His flunkies answer at the bell;
He ca’s his coach; he ca’s his horse;
He draws a bonie, silken purse
As lang’s my tail, whare thro’ the steeks,
The yellow, letter’d Geordie keeks.
Frae morn to een, it’s nought but toiling,
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling:
An’ tho’ the gentry first are steghan,
Yet ev’n the ha’ folk fill their peghan
Wi’ sauce, ragouts, an’ sic like trashtrie,
That’s little short o’ downright wastrie.
Our Whipper-in, wee, blastiet wonner,
Poor, worthless elf, it eats a dinner,
Better than ony Tenant-man
His Honor has in a’ the lan’:
An’ what poor Cot-folk pit their painch in,
I own it’s past my comprehension.—
Trowth, Ceasar, whyles they’re fash’d eneugh;
A Cotter howckan in a sheugh,
Wi’ dirty stanes biggan an dyke,
Bairan a quarry, an’ sic like,
Himsel, a wife, he thus sustains,
A smytrie o’ wee, duddie weans,
An’ nought but his han’-daurk, to keep
Them right an’ tight in thack an’ raep.
An’ when they meet wi’ sair disasters,
Like loss o’ health, or want o’ masters,
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer,
An’ they maun starve o’ cauld an’ hunger:
But how it comes, I never kent yet,
They’re maistly wonderfu’ contented;
An’ buirdly chiels, an’ clever hizzies,
Are bred in sic a way as this is.
CEASAR
But then, to see how ye’re negleket,
How huff’d, an’ cuff’d, an’ disrespeket!
Lord man, our gentry care as little
For delvers, ditchers, an’ sic cattle;
They gang as saucy by poor folk,
As I wad by a stinkan brock.
I’ve notic’d, on our Laird’s court-day,
An’ mony a time my heart’s been wae,
Poor tenant-bodies, scant o’ cash,
How they maun thole a factor’s snash;
He’ll stamp an’ threaten, curse an’ swear,
He’ll apprehend them, poind their gear,
While they maun stand, wi’ aspect humble,
An’ hear it a’, an’ fear an’ tremble!
I see how folk live that hae riches,
But surely poor-folk maun be wretches!
LUATH
They’re no sae wretched’s ane wad think;
Tho’ constantly on poortith’s brink,
They’re sae accustom’d wi’ the sight,
The view o’t gies them little fright.
Then chance an’ fortune are sae guided,
They’re ay in less or mair provided;
An’ tho’ fatigu’d wi’ close employment,
A blink o’ rest’s a sweet enjoyment.
The dearest comfort o’ their lives,
Their grushie weans, an’ faithfu’ wives;
The prattling things are just their pride,
That sweetens a’ their fire-side.
An’ whyles, twalpennie-worth o’ nappy
Can mak the bodies unco happy;
They lay aside their private cares,
To mind the Kirk an’ State affairs;
They’ll talk o’ patronage an’ priests,
Wi’ kindling fury i’ their breasts,
Or tell what new taxation’s comin,
An’ ferlie at the folk in LON’ON.
As bleak-fac’d Hallowmass returns,
They get the jovial, rantan Kirns,
When rural life, of ev’ry station,
Unite in common recreation;
Love blinks, Wit slaps, an’ social Mirth
Forgets there’s care upo’ the earth.
That merry day the year begins,
They bar the door on frosty win’s;
The nappy reeks wi’ mantling ream,
An’ sheds a heart-inspiring steam;
The luntan pipe, an’ sneeshin mill,
Are handed round wi’ right guid will;
The cantie, auld folks, crackan crouse,
The young anes rantan thro’ the house—
My heart has been sae fain to see them,
That I for joy hae barket wi’ them.
Still it’s owre true that ye hae said,
Sic game is now owre aften play’d;
There’s monie a creditable stock
O’ decent, honest, fawsont folk,
Are riven out baith root an’ branch,
Some rascal’s pridefu’ greed to quench,
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster
In favor wi’ some gentle Master,
Wha, aiblins, thrang a parliamentin,
For Britain’s guid his saul indentin—
CEASAR
Haith lad, ye little ken about it;
For Britain’s guid! guid faith! I doubt it.
Say rather, gaun as PREMIERS lead him,
An’ saying aye or no’s they bid him:
At Operas an’ Plays parading,
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading:
Or maybe, in a frolic daft,
To HAGUE or CALAIS takes a waft,
To make a tour an’ take a whirl,
To learn bon ton an’ see the worl’.
There, at VIENNA or VERSAILLES,
He rives his father’s auld entails;
Or by MADRID he takes the rout,
To thrum guittarres an’ fecht wi’ nowt;
Or down Italian Vista startles,
Whore-hunting amang groves o’ myrtles:
Then bowses drumlie German-water,
To make himsel look fair an’ fatter,
An’ clear the consequential sorrows,
Love-gifts of Carnival Signioras.
For Britain’s guid! for her destruction!
Wi’ dissipation, feud an’ faction!
Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate,
They waste sae mony a braw estate!
Are we sae foughten an’ harass’d
For gear to gang that gate at last!
O would they stay aback frae courts,
An’ please themsels wi’ countra sports,
It wad for ev’ry ane be better,
The Laird, the Tenant, an’ the Cotter!
For thae frank, rantan, ramblan billies,
Fient haet o’ them’s illhearted fellows;
Except for breakin o’ their timmer,
Or speakin lightly o’ their Limmer;
Or shootin of a hare or moorcock,
The ne’er-a-bit they’re ill to poor folk.
But will ye tell me, Master Ceasar,
Sure great folk’s life’s a life o’ pleasure?
Nae cauld nor hunger e’er can steer them,
The vera thought o’t need na fear them.
CEASAR
Lord man, were ye but whyles where I am,
The gentles ye wad ne’er envy them!
It’s true, they needna starve or sweat,
Thro’ Winter’s cauld, or Summer’s heat;
They’ve nae sair-wark to craze their banes,
An’ fill auld-age wi’ grips an’ granes:
But human-bodies are sic fools,
For a’ their Colledges an’ Schools,
That when nae real ills perplex them,
They mak enow themsels to vex them;
An’ ay the less they hae to sturt them,
In like proportion, less will hurt them.
A country fellow at the pleugh,
His acre’s till’d, he’s right eneugh;
A country girl at her wheel,
Her dizzen’s done, she’s unco weel;
But Gentlemen, an’ Ladies warst,
Wi’ ev’n down want o’ wark they’re curst.
They loiter, lounging, lank an’ lazy;
Tho’ deil-haet ails them, yet uneasy;
Their days, insipid, dull an’ tasteless,
Their nights, unquiet, lang an’ restless.
An’ ev’n their sports, their balls an’ races,
Their galloping thro’ public places,
There’s sic parade, sic pomp an’ art,
The joy can scarcely reach the heart.
The Men cast out in party-matches,
Then sowther a’ in deep debauches.
Ae night, they’re mad wi’ drink an’ whoring,
Niest day their life is past enduring.
The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,
As great an’ gracious a’ as sisters;
But hear their absent thoughts o’ ither,
They’re a’ run-deils an’ jads the gither
Whyles, owre the wee bit cup an’ platie,
They sip the scandal-potion pretty;
Or lee-lang nights, wi’ crabbet leuks,
Pore owre the devil’s pictur’d beuks;
Stake on a chance a farmer’s stackyard,
An’ cheat like ony unhang’d blackguard.
There’s some exceptions, man an’ woman;
But this is Gentry’s life in common.
By this, the sun was out o’ sight,
An’ darker gloamin brought the night:
The bum-clock humm’d wi’ lazy drone,
The kye stood rowtan i’ the loan;
When up they gat, an’ shook their lugs,
Rejoic’d they were na men but dogs;
An’ each took off his several way,
Resolv’d to meet some ither day.
Might it not be the very model of literary empathy to write so well about a mouse? Burns’s pity as well as his creativity was pressed into action after he upset the animal’s nest when going about his labours in the field. During his lifetime Burns was often called ‘the heaven-taught ploughman’, but the glory of the man was to have invented in his writing a heaven on earth, a place where mice and men could share their woes and even extend comfort to each other in the teeth of unknowable fate.
Wee, sleeket, cowran, 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, whyles, 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!
Its 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’ wast,
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 monie 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!
Our poet would favour patriotic songs on a night out with fellow Scots, but the sober exciseman and admirer of Addison and Pope could just as easily favour the opposite. Yet his blood could doubtless begin to boil at the mere contemplation both of English wrongs and Scottish complicity. To my mind the following song’s greatness is in its hearty encapsulation of a national hobby: wallowing in a chiefly fantastical sense of historical injury. It was already a piece of sentiment by the time Burns wrote it down, but its force is undiminished.
Fareweel to a’ our Scotish fame,
Fareweel our ancient glory;
Fareweel even to the Scotish name,
Sae fam’d in martial story!
Now Sark rins o’er the Solway sands,
And Tweed rins to the ocean,
To mark whare England’s province stands,
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!
What force or guile could not subdue,
Thro’ many warlike ages,
Is wrought now by a coward few,
For hireling traitors’ wages.
The English steel we could disdain,
Secure in valor’s station;
But English gold has been our bane,
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!
O would, or I had seen the day
That treason thus could sell us,
My auld grey head had lien in clay,
Wi’ Bruce and loyal WALLACE!
But pith and power, till my last hour,
I’ll mak this declaration;
We’re bought and sold for English gold,
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!
Scotland and England are the only countries in Europe whose national anthems celebrate the defeat of a now benign neighbour, as if that defeat could summon the essence of Scotland, and England too. Burns could also be perfectly rousing in that mode: he hated tyranny in all forms, and in the absence of a real oppressor he could happily reach into the mists of local time and touch on the horrors of proud Edward I, ‘the Hammer of the Scots’.
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 flie:—
Wha for SCOTLAND’s king and law,
Freedom’s sword will strongly draw,
FREE-MAN stand, or FREE-MAN 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!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
LIBERTY’s in every blow!
Let us Do—OR DiE!!!
Scots ballads often work like historical love songs, conjuring lost kings and early graves, giving a simple and personal sound to political woes. They are unforgettable. Burns had a poet’s feeling for the Jacobite cause and could make songs that feel as ancient as grief itself. These ballads are part of the weather in Scotland, words blown with the rain, and they echo through the hills like the murmurs of angels.
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,
And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd;
It brak the sweet heart of 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;
But till my last moments my words are the same,
There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.—
We could write out this poem, fold it in four, and press it into the breast pockets of Tony Blair and George W. Bush. With Burns’s permission, and with something of his zeal for political argument, let us dedicate the poem to the memory of those men and women who will never see Logan Braes again.
There have been 4039 Coalition deaths – 3742 Americans, two Australians, 168 Britons, thirteen Bulgarians, one Czech, seven Danes, two Dutch, two Estonians, one Hungarian, thirty-three Italians, one Kazakh, three Latvians, twenty-one Poles, two Romanians, five Salvadorans, four Slovaks, one South Korean, eleven Spaniards, two Thais and eighteen Ukrainians – in the war in Iraq as of 2 September 2007.
It is estimated that 650,000 Iraqis have died.
O, Logan, sweetly didst thou glide,
That day I was my Willie’s bride;
And years sinsyne hae o’er us run,
Like Logan to the simmer sun.
But now thy flowery banks appear
Like drumlie Winter, dark and drear,
While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes.—
Again the merry month o’ May
Has made our hills and vallies gay;
The birds rejoice in leafy bowers,
The bees hum round the breathing flowers:
Blythe Morning lifts his rosy eye,
And Evening’s tears are tears of joy:
My soul, delightless, a’ surveys,
While Willie’s far frae Logan braes.—
Within yon milkwhite hawthorn bush,
Amang her nestlings sits the thrush;
Her faithfu’ Mate will share her toil,
Or wi’ his song her cares beguile:
But, I wi’ my sweet nurslings here,
Nae Mate to help, nae Mate to cheer,
Pass widowed nights and joyless days,
While Willie’s far frae Logan braes.—
That brethren rouse in deadly hate!
As ye make mony a fond heart mourn,
Sae may it on your heads return!
How can your flinty hearts enjoy
The widow’s tears, the orphan’s cry:
But soon may Peace bring happy days
And Willie, hame to Logan braes!
Ministry of Defence Press Release
It is with very deep regret that the Ministry of Defence has to confirm that Fusilier Gordon Campbell Gentle, of Glasgow, was killed in an improvised explosive device attack on British military vehicles in Basra on 28 June 2004. Aged 19, he served with the First Battalion Royal Highland Fusiliers, and was single.
Lieutenant Colonel Paul Cartwright, the Commanding Officer of the First Battalion Royal Highland Fusiliers, said: ‘His name says it all. As a new member of the battalion, he settled in with ease, happy in the team environment and always willing to help others. His enthusiasm for his job immediately caught the eye of his peers and superiors alike.’ Our thoughts are with his family at this very difficult time.
I murder hate by field or flood,
Tho’ glory’s name may screen us;
In wars at home I’ll spend my blood,
Life-giving wars of Venus:
The deities that I adore
Are social Peace and Plenty;
I’m better pleased to make one more,
Than be the death of twenty.—
I would not die like Socrates,
For all the fuss of Plato;
Nor would I with Leonidas,
Nor yet would I with Cato:
The Zealots of the Church, or State,
Shall ne’er my mortal foes be,
But let me have bold ZIMRI’s fate,
Within the arms of COSBI!—
Burns had to conceal his radical sympathies. He didn’t always manage this in the public bar, but because of his views, some of his writing, like ‘The Tree of Liberty’, remained unpublished until forty years after his death. Equality was an obsession: a difficult life had by the end left him hoarse for the virtues of democracy. He admired the Revolution in France, and we may read this poem as evidence of Burns’s higher hopes for mankind – his opposition to the wiles of tyranny – while appreciating too how an American-style zeal for ‘democracy’, in our own day, can threaten to shackle the minds of the people.
Heard ye o’ the tree o’ France,
I watna what’s the name o’t;
Around it a’ the patriots dance,
Weel Europe kens the fame o’t.
It stands where ance the Bastille stood,
A prison built by kings, man,
When Superstition’s hellish brood
Kept France in leading strings, man.
Upo’ this tree there grows sic fruit,
Its virtues a’ can tell, man;
It raises man aboon the brute,
It maks him ken himsel, man.
Gif ance the peasant taste a bit,
He’s greater than a lord, man,
An’ wi’ the beggar shares a mite
O’ a’ he can afford, man.
This fruit is worth a’ Afric’s wealth,
To comfort us ’twas sent, man:
To gie the sweetest blush o’ health,
An’ mak us a’ content, man.
It clears the een, it cheers the heart,
Maks high and low gude friends, man;
And he wha acts the traitor’s part
It to perdition sends, man.
My blessings aye attend the chiel
Wha pitied Gallia’s slaves, man,
And staw a branch, spite o’ the deil,
Frae yont the western waves, man.
Fair Virtue water’d it wi’ care,
And now she sees wi’ pride, man,
How weel it buds and blossoms there,
Its branches spreading wide, man.
But vicious folks aye hate to see
The works o’ Virtue thrive, man;
The courtly vermin’s banned the tree,
And grat to see it thrive, man;
King Loui’ thought to cut it down,
When it was unco sma’, man;
For this the watchman cracked his crown,
Cut aff his head and a’, man.
A wicked crew syne, on a time,
Did tak a solemn aith, man,
It ne’er should flourish to its prime,
I wat they pledged their faith, man.
Awa’ they gaed wi’ mock parade,
Like beagles hunting game, man,
But soon grew weary o’ the trade
And wished they’d been at hame, man.
For Freedom, standing by the tree,
Her sons did loudly ca’, man;
She sang a sang o’ liberty,
Which pleased them ane and a’, man.
By her inspired, the new-born race
Soon grew the avenging steel, man;
The hirelings ran—her foes gied chase,
And banged the despot weel, man.
Let Britain boast her hardy oak,
Her poplar and her pine, man,
Auld Britain ance could crack her joke,
And o’er her neighbours shine, man.
But seek the forest round and round,
And soon ’twill be agreed, man,
That sic a tree can not be found,
’Twixt London and the Tweed, man.
Without this tree, alake this life
Is but a vale o’ woe, man;
A scene o’ sorrow mixed wi’ strife,
Nae real joys we know, man.
We labour soon, we labour late,
To feed the titled knave, man;
And a’ the comfort we’re to get
Is that ayont the grave, man.
Wi’ plenty o’ sic trees, I trow,
The warld would live in peace, man;
The sword would help to mak a plough,
The din o’ war wad cease, man.
Like brethren in a common cause,
We’d on each other smile, man;
And equal rights and equal laws
Wad gladden every isle, man.
Wae worth the loon wha wadna eat
Sic halesome dainty cheer, man;
I’d gie my shoon frae aff my feet,
To taste sic fruit, I swear, man.
Syne let us pray, auld England may
Sure plant this far-famed tree, man;
And blythe we’ll sing, and hail the day
That gave us liberty, man.
No I’m not going ten thousand miles from home to help murder and burn another poor nation simply to continue the domination of white slave masters of the darker people the world over. This is the day when such evils must come to an end.
Muhammad Ali
It was in sweet Senegal that my foes did me enthrall
For the lands of Virginia-ginia O;
Torn from that lovely shore, and must never see it more,
And alas! I am weary, weary O!
Torn from, &c.
All on that charming coast is no bitter snow and frost,
Like the lands of Virginia-ginia O;
There streams for ever flow, and there flowers for ever blow,
And alas! I am weary, weary O!
There streams, &c.
The burden I must bear, while the cruel scourge I fear,
In the lands of Virginia-ginia O;
And I think on friends most dear with the bitter, bitter tear,
And Alas! I am weary, weary O!
And I think, &c.
Our poet knew that earth was perhaps all the paradise that we shall ever know, and the argument of his days was aimed at restoring the sovereignty of decency and fairness. It was not an ideology or a party, a faction or a government that authored a ‘Marseillaise’ to the human spirit, but Robert Burns, a farmer’s son, who died at 37 with a deep conception of what it means to be alive. His greatest poem is not a farewell to the lasses, the drinks, the immortals or the politics, but a rousing welcome to what is best in each of us, for a’ that, as we live and breathe. When the night is over and we make our way home, when the morning is clear and the sky is busy with birds and their songs, we will know our place in the world by the size of our faith in fellowship. It is this conviction which makes Burns the world’s greatest and most loveable poet.
Is there, for honest Poverty
That hings his head, and a’ that;
The coward-slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a’ that!
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Our toils obscure, and a’ that,
The rank is but the guinea’s stamp,
The Man’s the gowd for a’ that.—
What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, and a’ that.
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A Man’s a Man for a’ that.
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their tinsel show, and a’ that;
The honest man, though e’er sae poor,
Is king o’ men for a’ that.—
Ye see yon birkie ca’d a lord,
Wha struts, and stares, and a’ that,
Though hundreds worship at his word,
He’s but a coof for a’ that.
For a’ that, and a’ that,
His ribband, star and a’ that,
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a’ that.—
A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a’ that;
But an honest man’s aboon his might,
Gude faith he mauna fa’ that!
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their dignities, and a’ that,
The pith o’ Sense, and pride o’ Worth,
Are higher rank than a’ that.—
Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it will for a’ that,
That Sense and Worth, o’er a’ the earth
Shall bear the gree, and a’ that.
For a’ that, and a’ that,
It’s comin yet for a’ that,
That Man to Man the warld o’er,
Shall brothers be for a’ that.—