The Land of Burns
Ayr, Scotland, September 9.
Today we have spent in Ayr, the village which bases a claim on fame because in a humble little cottage, just outside its limits, Robert Burns, the great Scottish poet, was born. I call Burns “the great Scottish poet” because it is right that his beloved country should be linked with his name, but, as a matter of fact, Burns is the poet of humanity in every land and every clime. His writings jingle like a familiar song, his thoughts are the thoughts we all think but cannot express, and his music touches the heartstrings like recollections of childhood, a letter from home, or the memory of those who are dear and away. Burns wrote in rhyme the thoughts that came themselves and not thoughts he had worked up for the occasion. A child of poverty himself, he was neither blinded to its troubles nor overcome by its restrictions, and he tells us of the joys and pleasures, the griefs and sorrows of the people. He puts epigramsinto verse and he tells of things as they are, looking through the shams and deceits and making good-natured fun of weakness and folly. He never gets away from the human interest and he never fails in knowledge of human nature.
Burns’s father was a farmer, and not a very successful one. He spelled his name Burness, but for some unknown reason the poet shortened it. The father was an honest and religious man who was highly respected, but never made good in a business way. His mother was brighter, and used to sing Scotch songs and ballads, and if there is anything in heredity Robert got his poetic instincts from that side of the house. They were trying to make a nursery pay when Robert was born, and I visited the cottage where that event took place. One end of the shanty with three rooms was for the family and the other with two rooms was for the cattle. The Burnses failed in the nursery business, and rented a small farm near by, on which Robert spent his boyhood days, not far from the taverns in Ayr and Irvine, where he learned how to bea “good fellow” and thus shortened his life. He was 15 years old when he wrote his first verses, and was helping on the farm and going to school. After the father died Robert and his brother tried to run the farm, but the poet got discouraged, and decided to emigrate to Jamaica. A publisher printed his poems, and he intended to take the money he received for them to pay his passage. But the book made a hit from the start, a second edition was called for, and Burns at once attained great popularity. He gave up the idea of leaving Scotland, and put in most of the remainder of his days writing, besides holding a small job which his friends got for him, in the revenue service. He bought a farm near Dumfries, and lived there and in the town the rest of his short life, for he died in 1796, when he was only 37 years of age.
Burns not only enjoyed popularity in his own generation, but in the more than a century since he wrote his fame has grown steadily and his genius and talent are appreciated in every part of the world. There are statues and monuments to Burns all over Scotland, but the greatest memorial is in thehearts of the people of his own country and of all others into which his songs have gone. Wherever there is a son or daughter of Scotland there is a lover of “Bobby Burns.”
It was a little thrilling to be shown the inn where “Tam O’Shanter” loitered that stormy night in Ayr—
“Auld Ayr, wham ne’er a town surpasses,For honest men and bonnie lasses.”
“Auld Ayr, wham ne’er a town surpasses,For honest men and bonnie lasses.”
“Auld Ayr, wham ne’er a town surpasses,For honest men and bonnie lasses.”
“Auld Ayr, wham ne’er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonnie lasses.”
It will be remembered that Tam and his crony, Souter Johnny, (both honored by statues now,) had spent the evening most merrily, and it came time for Tam to go home to his wife, who had frequently told Tam what would happen to him after one of those sprees. And the poet philosophizes:
“Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greetTo think how mony counsels sweet,How mony lengthen’d sage advices,The husband frae the wife despises!”
“Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greetTo think how mony counsels sweet,How mony lengthen’d sage advices,The husband frae the wife despises!”
“Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greetTo think how mony counsels sweet,How mony lengthen’d sage advices,The husband frae the wife despises!”
“Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet
To think how mony counsels sweet,
How mony lengthen’d sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises!”
Tam started for home on his good gray mare, Meg, but when he reached old Alloway Church he saw lights, and, made brave by the Scotch whisky, he boldly looked in. He saw the witches dancing, the devil playing the fifes, and a young woman he knew was in thecarousal. Tam foolishly called, the lights went out, and it was up to Meg to get away from the swarm of witches who came in hot pursuit. The leading lady of the gang was right upon poor Tam when he came to the bridge, his hope of escape, for witches cannot cross running water. With one great jump Meg saved her master.
“Ane spring brought off her master, hale,But left behind her ain grey tail;The carlin claught her by the rump,And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.”
“Ane spring brought off her master, hale,But left behind her ain grey tail;The carlin claught her by the rump,And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.”
“Ane spring brought off her master, hale,But left behind her ain grey tail;The carlin claught her by the rump,And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.”
“Ane spring brought off her master, hale,
But left behind her ain grey tail;
The carlin claught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.”
I have seen the tavern, the church, the bridge, the statue of Tam, but a grateful public has forgotten to properly commemorate the services of Meg and the sacrifice of the tail.
Across the river Ayr are “the auld brig” and “the new brig” which held a joint debate as reported by Burns’s muse. The city council was recently about to take down the auld brig because it was unsafe, but a general howl went up, and the bridge is to be preserved. All of the relics of Burns are being taken care of, and so far as possible the old cottage and other places connected with his life are restored to the condition they were in when Burns was plowing and quit work towrite poetry to a mouse he had stirred out of its nest. I can readily understand why Burns did not make a success as a farmer, for like other poets he did not like to work. However, the dislike for work is not confined to poets, who have more of an excuse for this fault than the rest of us.
I have not yet found a Scotchman who cannot quote Burns’s poetry by the yard. It is all I can do to read most of Burns’s lines, and the words I skip often look rough and jagged. But when a Scotchman recites Burns, the dialect and the broad accent make the rhymes sound like music. The strange syllables fit together in harmony so that one can understand that Burns knew what he was about when he used the local phrases and words in so much of his writing. Burns was a good scholar, and could and did write the purest of English, but he took the homely phrases of the Scottish life to make the common things he writes about ring clear and right.
Ayr is about forty miles from Glasgow. As soon as you leave the Burns neighborhood youget into a country of coal mines, factories, and golf links. There are miles of golf grounds on the moors along the road. Most of the land is only fit to raise heather and lose golf balls. No wonder Burns’s father failed and Robert was going to emigrate. The more I see of Scottish soil the more I take off my hat to the Scotch farmers, who must be the bravest men in the world.
About fifty years ago Andrew Carnegie, then a lad of a half-dozen years, took his father by the hand and led him onto the ship at Glasgow which brought them to America. In all the Scotch towns there are Carnegie libraries and other benefactions from the Scotch boy. His shrewdness and industry are the result of Scotch character when given full play in an open field. On the other hand, Burns with his talent and his weakness exhibits another result of the sentimental yet canny Scot who sees through humanity and analyzes it.
To read the poetry of Robert Burns is to be wiser, better and happier. The day spent in this little nook in which he began his lifehas brought much of Burns’s surroundings vividly to my mind. The little hovel in which he was born contrasts with the great monument reared by a grateful country, and proves his words if they needed proof:
“A king can make a belted knight,A marquis, duke, and a’ that,But an honest man’s aboon his might,Guid faith, he mauna fa’ that.For a’ that and a’ that,Their dignities and a’ that,The pith of sense and pride o’ worth,Are higher rank, than a’ that.”
“A king can make a belted knight,A marquis, duke, and a’ that,But an honest man’s aboon his might,Guid faith, he mauna fa’ that.For a’ that and a’ that,Their dignities and a’ that,The pith of sense and pride o’ worth,Are higher rank, than a’ that.”
“A king can make a belted knight,A marquis, duke, and a’ that,But an honest man’s aboon his might,Guid faith, he mauna fa’ that.For a’ that and a’ that,Their dignities and a’ that,The pith of sense and pride o’ worth,Are higher rank, than a’ that.”
“A king can make a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a’ that,
But an honest man’s aboon his might,
Guid faith, he mauna fa’ that.
For a’ that and a’ that,
Their dignities and a’ that,
The pith of sense and pride o’ worth,
Are higher rank, than a’ that.”