What an antithetical mind! – tenderness, roughness – delicacy, coarseness – sentiment, sensuality – soaring and grovelling, dirt and deity – all mixed up in that one compound of inspired clay! It is strange; a true voluptuary will never abandon his mind to the grossness of reality. It is by exalting the earthly, the material, the physique of our pleasures, by veiling these ideas, by forgetting them altogether, or, at least, never naming them hardly to one’s self, that we alone can prevent them from disgusting.
LORD BYRON: Journal (1813)
More obfuscation, often self-imposed, surrounds Burns than almost any other poet. He delighted in acting out the role of the untutored child of nature, the ploughman-poet that the Edinburgh literati had foisted on him; the poems he wrote in praise of the bottle have in some quarters encouraged the view that he was a heavy drinker; he sent a copy of his most famous poem, ‘Auld lang syne’, to James Johnson’s Scots Musical Museum and wrote that the old song had ‘never been in print, nor even in manuscript, until I took it down from an old man’s singing’. The truth is rather different. He took an intelligent interest in the political questions of his day, and sympathized with the American and French Revolutions. Fluent in French and well-grounded in Latin, he was a voracious reader of his own language, had an intimate knowledge of the Bible and Shakespeare, and relished the poetry of Milton, Dryden and Pope. More workaholic than alcoholic, he ran a farm at Ellisland that had been leased him by a friend; he was appointed to the Excise Division in Dumfries in 1789, where he carried out his duties with such efficiency that he was soon promoted; and between 1786 and 1796 he wrote or reworked from earlier sources an extraordinary number of poems for James Johnson’s Scots Musical Museum and travelled extensively in the Highlands and the Borders, collecting tunes and words for George Thomson’s A Select Collection of Original Scottish Airs. He also assembled a notorious collection of bawdy verse, The Merry Muses of Caledonia, some of which he wrote himself.
Burns is, with Byron, the finest satirical poet of the nineteenth century – but it is as a love poet that he, perhaps, is best known. He was by all accounts a passionate lover, had nine children by Jane Armour (whom he met in 1785 and eventually married in 1788), but also fathered children on Helen Armstrong, Jenny Clow, Ann Park and Elizabeth Paton. Margaret Campbell (the ‘Highland Mary’ of his poems) probably died in childbirth, and Margaret Cameron (‘May’) took out a paternity suit against him. Despite this apparent promiscuity, Burns’s love poems are as tender and direct as those of Goethe, a contemporary whose own sexual appetite rivals that of his Scottish contemporary. Few male poets writing in English have written more poems spoken by a woman, and the range of feeling is enormous. Some of his most touching poems – rarely sentimental because of their directness of utterance – deal with women deserted in love or abandoned because pregnant: Goethe’s Gretchen poems (‘Ach neige’ and ‘Wie anders, Gretchen’ spring to mind, or his bitter ‘Vor dem Gesetz’). The language used by the characters in Burns’s poems is a hybrid, whose vocabulary is a mixture of English and Scottish, and whose syntax mostly derives from English. Burns, characteristically, was ambiguous on the matter: although he often talks of writing in his ‘native language’, he elsewhere describes his work as containing a ‘sprinkling’ of Scottish words. Scottish, of course, is not the language of the Highlands (where a form of Gaelic is spoken) but refers rather to the dialect of English called ‘Scottish’, ‘Scots’ or ‘Lallans’.
Though Burns was scarcely set during his lifetime and only sporadically in the years immediately following his death, more and more composers turned to his poetry as the nineteenth century wore on: Coleridge-Taylor, Walford Davies, Franz, Jensen, MacCunn, Mackenzie, Mendelssohn, Somervell, Sterndale Bennett, Sullivan and, especially, Robert Schumann, who, rejected by Ferdinand Wieck, must have been aware of the similarity to Burns’s predicament. Aged nineteen, having provoked his father’s anger by a carefree lifestyle, Burns left home to establish a flax trade. When his father died in 1784 Burns returned to his parents’ farm, but a succession of poor harvests persuaded him to abandon farming. It was at this time that he wrote some of his most famous lyrics, in praise of Jean Armour, the beautiful village girl he wished to marry. This wish, however, was vehemently opposed by her father, with the result that Burns, having failed in his numerous business enterprises, considered in his despair emigrating to Jamaica. As it turned out, he was suddenly catapulted to fame by Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect (1786), and Jean’s family now agreed to the wedding plans.
In the nineteenth century it was Schumann (some twenty settings), in the twentieth Francis George Scott (thirty-five), who seemed to have the closest rapport with Burns. Most remarkable of all, however, is Burns’s popularity in Russia, where he became the state’s adopted national poet. Samuil Marshak began translating Burns in 1924, and by the 1950s some 600,000 copies of the poet had been sold in the Soviet Union. Among the most important Russian settings of Burns are those by Sviridov, Denisov, Shostakovich, Levitin and Khrennikov.
Musing on the roaring ocean,
Which divides my love and me,
Wearying heav’n in warm devotion
For his weal where’er he be.
Hope and Fear’s alternate billow
Yielding late to Nature’s law,
Whispering spirits round my pillow,
Talk of him that’s far awa’!
Ye whom sorrow never wounded,
Ye who never shed a tear,
Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded,
Gaudy day to you is dear!
Gentle night, do thou befriend me!
Downy sleep, the curtain draw!
Spirits kind, again attend me,
Talk of him that’s far awa!
(Beethoven, Bennett)
My heart is sair2, I dare na tell,
My heart is sair for Somebody;
I could wake a winter night,
For the sake o’ Somebody!
Oh-hon! for Somebody!
Oh-hey! for Somebody!
I could range the world around,
For the sake o’ Somebody!
Ye Powers that smile on virtuous love,
O, sweetly smile on Somebody!
Frae ilka3 danger keep him free,
And send me safe my Somebody!
Oh-hon! for Somebody!
Oh-hey! for Somebody!
I wad do – what wad I not?
For the sake o’ Somebody!
(Franz, Fuchs, Jensen, Marschner)
O, I am come to the low countrie –
Ochon, ochon, ochrie! –
Without a penny in my purse
To buy a meal to me.
It was na sae1 in the Highland hills –
Ochon, ochon, ochrie! –
Nae woman in the country wide
Sae happy was as me.
For then I had a score o kye2 –
Ochon, ochon, ochrie! –
Feeding on yon hill sae high
And giving milk to me.
And there I had three score o yowes3 –
Ochon, ochon, ochrie! –
Skipping on yon bonie knowes4 –
And casting woo5 to me.
I was the happiest of a’ the clan –
Sair6, sair may I repine! –
For Donald was the brawest man7,
And Donald he was mine.
Till Charlie Stewart cam at last
Sae far to set us free:
My Donald’s arm was wanted then
For Scotland and for me.
Their waefu fate what need I tell?
Right to the wrang did yield;
My Donald and his country fell
Upon Culloden field.
Ochon! O Donald, O!
Ochon, ochon, ochrie!
Nae woman in the warld wide,
Sae wretched now as me!
My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer,
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe –
My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go!
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birthplace of valour, the country of worth!
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.
Farewell to the mountains, high cover’d with snow,
Farewell to the straths2 and green valleys below,
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods,
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods!
Hee balou1, my sweet wee Donald,
Picture o’ the great Clanronald!
Brawlie2 kens our wanton Chief
Wha gat my young Highland thief.
Leeze me on thy bonnie craigie3!
An’ thou live, thou’ll steal a naigie4,
Travel the country thro and thro’,
And bring hame a Carlisle cow!
Thro’ the Lawlands, o’er the Border,
Weel, my babie, may thou furder5,
Herry the louns6 o’ the laigh Countrie7,
Syne8 to the Highlands hame to me!
(Britten)
O mount and go,
Mount and make you ready!
O mount and go,
And be the Captain’s Lady!
When the drums do beat,
And the cannons rattle,
Thou shalt sit in state,
And see thy love in battle.
When the vanquish’d foe
Sues for peace and quiet,
To the shades we’ll go,
And in love enjoy it.
O how can I be blythe and glad,
Or how can I gang brisk and braw1,
When the bonie lad that I lo’e best
Is o’er the hills and far awa?
It’s no the frosty winter wind,
It’s no the driving drift and snaw;
But ay the tear comes in my e’e,
To think on him that’s far awa.
[My father pat me frae his door,
My friends they hae disown’d me a’;
But I hae ane will tak my part –
The bonie lad that’s far awa.]
A pair o’ gloves he bought to me,
And silken snoods he gae me twa;2
And I will wear them for his sake,
The bonie lad that’s far awa.
[O, weary Winter soon will pass,
And Spring will cleed the birken shaw,3
And my sweet babie will be born,4
And he’ll be hame that’s far awa!5]
(Beethoven)
I hae a wife o’ my ain,
I’ll partake wi’ naebody:
I’ll take cuckold frae nane,
I’ll gie cuckold to naebody.
I hae a penny to spend,
There – thanks to naebody!
I hae naething to lend,
I’ll borrow frae naebody.
I am naebody’s lord,
I’ll be slave to naebody.
I hae a guid braid sword,
I’ll tak dunts2 frae naebody.
I’ll be merry and free,
I’ll be sad for naebody;
Naebody cares for me,
I care for naebody.
Out over the Forth I look to the north –
But what is the north and its Highlands to me?
The south nor the east gie ease to my breast,
The far foreign land or the wild rolling sea!
But I look to the west, when I gae to rest,
That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be;
For far in the west lives he I loe best,
The lad that is dear to my babie and me.
(Marschner, Somervell)
O, my luve is like a red, red rose,
That’s newly sprung in June.
O, my luve is 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 luve 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!
And I will luve 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!
(Bantock, Beach, Bohm, Castelnuovo-Tedesco, Franz, Hatton, Henschel, Kienzl, Marschner, Rheinberger, F. G. Scott, Somervell)
‘Wha is that at my bower door?’
‘O, wha is it but Findlay!’
‘Then gae your gate1, ye’ se nae2 be here.’
‘Indeed maun I!’3 quo’ Findlay.
‘What mak ye, sae like a thief?’
‘O, come and see!’ quo’ Findlay.
‘Before the morn ye’ll work mischief?’
‘Indeed will I!’ quo’ Findlay.
‘Gif4 I rise and let you in’ –
‘Let me in!’ quo’ Findlay –
‘Ye’ll keep me wauken wi’ your din?’
‘Indeed will I!’ quo’ Findlay.
‘In my bower if ye should stay’ –
‘Let me stay!’ quo’ Findlay –
‘I fear ye’ll bide till break o’ day?’
‘Indeed will I!’ quo’ Findlay.
‘Here this night if ye remain’ –
‘I’ll remain!’ quo’ Findlay –
‘I dread ye’ll learn the gate again?’
‘Indeed will I!’ quo’ Findlay.
‘What may pass within this bower’
(‘Let it pass!’ quo’ Findlay.)
‘Ye maun conceal till your last hour’ –
‘Indeed will I!’ quo’ Findlay.
(Loewe, F. G. Scott)
John Anderson my jo2, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonie brow was brent3;
But now your brow is beld4, John,
Your locks are like the snaw,
But blessings on your frosty pow5,
John Anderson my jo!
John Anderson my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither,
And monie a cantie6 day, John,
We’ve had wi’ ane anither;
Now we maun totter down, John,
And hand in hand we’ll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo!
(Graener, Lehmann, Marschner, Shostakovich, Strauss, Weber)
Ye banks and braes1 o’ bonie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae weary fu’ o’ care!
Thou’ll break my heart, thou warbling bird,
That wantons thro’ the flowering thorn!
Thou minds me o’ departed joys,
Departed never to return.
Aft hae I rov’d by bonie Doon
To see the rose and woodbine twine,
And ilka2 bird sang o’ its luve,
And fondly sae did I o’ mine.
Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose,
Fu’ sweet upon its thorny tree!
And my fause luver staw my rose –
But ah! he left the thorn wi’ me.
(MacDowell, Quilter)
Amang the trees, where humming bees
At buds and flowers were hinging, O,
Auld Caledon drew out her drone,1
And to her pipe was singing, O.
’Twas Pibroch, Sang, Strathspeys and Reels –
She dirl’d2 them aff fu clearly, O,
When there cam a yell o foreign squeels,
That dang her tapsalteerie, O!3
Their capon craws an queer ‘ha, ha’s,’
They made our lugs grow eerie, O.4
The hungry bike did scrape and fyke,5
Till we were wae6 and weary, O.
But a royal ghaist, wha ance was cas’d
A prisoner, aughteen year awa,7
He fir’d a Fiddler in the North,
That dang them tapsalteerie, O!
O, wert thou in the cauld blast
On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
My plaidie to the angry airt2,
I’d shelter thee, I’d shelter thee.
Or did Misfortune’s bitter storms
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield3 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 desert 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.
(Franz, Jensen, Marschner, Mendelssohn, F. G. Scott)
Health to the Maxwells’ vet’ran Chief!
Health ay unsour’d by care or grief!
Inspir’d, I turn’d Fate’s sibyl leaf
This natal morn;
I see thy life is stuff o prief3,
Scarce quite half-worn.
[This day thou metes threescore eleven,
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven
(The second-sight, ye ken, is given
To ilka4 Poet)
On thee a tack5 o seven times seven
Will yet bestow it.
If envious buckies6 view wi sorrow
Thy lengthen’d days on thy blest morrow,
May Desolation’s lang-teeth’d harrow,
Nine miles an hour,
Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah,
In brunstane stoure7!
But for thy friends, and they are monie,
Baith honest men and lassies bonie,
May couthie Fortune, kind and cannie8
In social glee,
Wi mornings blythe, and e’enings funny,
Bless them and thee!]
Farewell, auld birkie9! Lord be near ye,
And then the Deil, he daurna steer ye!10
Your friends ay love, your foes ay fear ye!
For me, shame fa’ me,
If neist my heart I dinna wear ye,11
While Burns they ca’ me!
A rose-bud, by my early walk
Adown a corn-inclosèd bawk2,
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk,
All on a dewy morning.
Ere twice the shades o dawn are fled,
In a’ its crimson glory spread,
And drooping rich the dewy head,
It scents the early morning.
Within the bush her covert nest
A little linnet fondly prest,
The dew sat chilly on her breast,
Sae early in the morning.
[She soon shall see her tender brood,
The pride, the pleasure o the wood,
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew’d,
Awauk3 the early morning.]
So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair,
On trembling string or vocal air,
Shall sweetly pay the tender care
That tents4 thy early morning!
So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay,
Shall beauteous blaze upon the day,
And bless the parent’s evening ray
That watch’d thy early morning!
(Haydn)
Wee Willie Gray an his leather wallet,
Peel a willow-wand to be him boots and jacket!
The rose upon the brier will be him trouse an doublet –
The rose upon the brier will be him trouse an doublet!
Wee Willie Gray an his leather wallet,
Twice a lily-flower will be him sark and gravat2!
Feathers of a flie wad feather up his bonnet –
Feathers of a flie wad feather up his bonnet!
(F. G. Scott)
What will I do gin my hoggie die2?
My joy, my pride, my hoggie!
My only beast, I had nae mae,
And vow but I was vogie3!
The lee-lang night we watched the fauld,4
Me and my faithfu doggie;
We heard nocht but the roaring linn,5
Amang the braes sae scroggie.6
But the houlet7 cry’d frae the castle wa’,
The blitter8 frae the boggie,
The tod9 reply’d upon the hill:
I trembled for my hoggie.
When day did daw, and cocks did craw,
The morning it was foggie,
An unco tyke10 lap o’er the dyke,
And maist11 has kill’d my hoggie!
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes2!
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 cot3 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 birk4 shades my Mary and me.]
Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides!
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave5,
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!6
The winter it is past, and the simmer comes at last,
And the small birds sing on ev’ry tree:
The hearts of these are glad, but mine is very sad,
For my true love is parted from me.
The rose upon the brier, by the waters running clear
May have charms for the linnet or the bee:
Their little loves are blest, and their little hearts at rest,
But my lover is parted from me.
(Somervell)
Will ye go to the Highlands, Leezie Lindsay,
Will ye go to the Highlands wi me;
Will ye go to the Highlands, Leezie Lindsay,
My pride and my darling to be.
For auld lang syne, my dear.
For auld lang syne,
We’ll tak a cup o kindness yet,
For auld lang syne!
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne2?
And surely ye’ll be your pint-stowp3
And surely I’ll be mine;
And we’ll tak a cup o kindness yet
For auld lang syne!
We twa hae run about the braes4,
And pou’d the gowans fine,5
But we’ve wander’d monie a weary fit,
Sin’ auld lang syne.