Rabbie Burns poetry is recited on this night in places far flung from his place of origin. Scots have taken his works world wide and the talent he displayed shines through the long lost South West Scotland words he uses. In fact many of the words were not understood by the 'polite society' of Edinburgh at the time, although this did not stop the women of that society throwing themselves at him of course. Feminism comes and goes but human nature never changes. Rabbie was not at home in such 'high society' and preferred the company of his own district, and who can blame him? In between chasing or being chased by women, farming and then becoming a very slothful customs man he continued to produce poetry. Now that is something the working man of today would not comprehend! Poetry, while appreciated at 'Burns nights,' is considered a 'Jessie' activity by most. Few there are who buy poetry books or listen to the, somewhat dreary, poetry programmes on radio 4. However mention a 'Burns night,' a few whiskies, a crowd of pleasant fellows and suddenly all seems acceptable, even when many words are easily pronounced but rarely understood! Haggis, neeps and tatties compliment the evening and all go home, somewhat unsteadily, but gleeful. Proffer a Robert Browning or a Byron poem at work the next day and be greeted with antagonism and once again the world goes on its merry way!
At primary school in the days of long ago we had to sing this Burns song. Occasionally some of us kept to the tune and I am glad as this became a favourite of mine in those bleak days of normal human existence pre political correctness. If you can find it somewhere have a listen ad see if I am right. Surprisingly it concerns a woman!
Afton Water
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 valleys below,
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow;
There oft, as mild Ev'ning sweeps over the lea,
Thy crystal 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 flowrets she stems thy clear wave.
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.
Notes
1] Afton: a small river that flows into the Nith near New Cumnock.
16] birk: birch.
21] brae: hill.
also 'Neeps' are mashed turnips and 'tatties' as you know are potatoes..
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