Robert Burns Born: Died:


Jan. 25, 1759 Jul. 21, 1796


Poet. Born the eldest of seven children at Alloway, near Ayr, the son of William Burns, a small farmer and gardener for the Provost of Ayr. Burns was educated briefly at John Murdoch's school in Alloway but received most of his schooling at home. His first love, Nelly Kirkpatrick inspired him to try his hand at poetry, and he wrote a song entitled "O, once I lov'd a bonnie lass", and set it to the tune of a traditional reel. In 1783 he started composing poetry in a traditional style using the Ayrshire dialect of Lowland Scots. When his father died in 1784, Burns and his brother Gilbert rented a farm near Mauchline where they struggled to make a living. During the first decade of his career as a poet, Burns reputedly fathered eight illegitimate children born to five different women. One, Jean Armour, became Mrs. Burns in 1788, two years after the first published work of poetry by Robert Burns “Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect" was published in July 1786. The Scots dialect had largely fallen into disuse for formal writing but Burns’ revival created a national tradition, and he became most uniquely the poet of his people. Burns moved to Edinburgh in order to dedicate himself to his poetry. A publisher there gave him work editing a collection of Scottish folk songs. The collection, "The Scots Musical Museum", was published in five volumes. Burns contributed over 150 songs, including “Ae Fond Kiss”, “A Red, Red Rose” and “Auld Lang Syne". In 1790 he produced what many call his greatest poem, “Tam o' Shanter” about country folk and their lives. He was asked to furnish contributions for "A Select Collection Of Scottish Airs" by George Thomson. He responded by contributing over 100 songs. In 1795, Burns was inspired by the events of the French Revolution to write "For a' that and a' that". He alienated many of his friends by his enthusiastic support of the French Revolution. His health began to fail, and fell into depression; drinking heavily. Burns died in 1796 of rheumatic fever. He was buried in the churchyard of St. Michael's in Dumfries, shortly before his wife, Jean, gave birth to their ninth child. Within a short time of his death, money was sent in from all over Scotland in support of his widow and children. Many of Burns’ songs and poems have become international favourites – rare is the year that goes by when "Auld Lang Syne," for instance, is not heard at least once.


Auld Lang Syne by Robert Burns. We all know the chorus but as part of the Local Herald’s drive to bring a bit of cultural to our readers, we’ve found the other words. ( Although they don’t make much sense to us.) Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And auld lang syne? Chorus. For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne.


And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, And surely I'll be mine! And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne. Chorus. We twa hae run about the braes, And pu'd the gowans fine; But we've wandered mony a weary fit Sin' auld lang syne. Chorus. We twa hae paidled i' the burn, Frae morning sun till dine; But seas between us braid hae roared Sin' auld lang syne. Chorus. And there's a hand, my trusty fiere, And gie's a hand o' thine! And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught, For auld lang syne.


For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne.


14.


Robert Burns is said to have watched as a sailor jumped into the harbour to rescue a rich man who had fallen into the water. As a reward, the rich man gave his rescuer a shilling. The crowd became angry at the small amount but Burns observed : "This gentleman is the best judge of the value of his own life".


Address To A Haggis Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o' the puddin-race! Aboon them a' ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy o' a grace As lang's my arm.


The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdies like a distant hill, Your pin wad help to mend a mill In time o' need, While thro' your pores the dews distil Like amber bead.


His knife see rustic Labour dight, An' cut you up wi' ready sleight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like ony ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin, rich!


Then, horn for horn, they stretch an' strive: Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive, Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve, Are bent lyke drums; Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive, "Bethankit!" 'hums.


Is there that owre his French ragout Or olio that wad staw a sow, Or fricassee wad mak her spew Wi' perfect sconner, Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view, On sic a dinner?


Poor devil! see him ower his trash, As feckless as a wither'd rash, His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash, His nieve a nit; Thro' bloody flood or field to dash, O how unfit!


But mark the Rustic, haggis fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread. Clap in his walie nieve a blade, He'll mak it whissle; An' legs an' arms, an' heads will sned, Like taps o' thrissle.


Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o' fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware That jaups in luggies; But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer, Gie her a haggis!


The Translation Fair is your honest happy face Great chieftain of the pudding race Above them all you take your place Stomach, tripe or guts Well are you worthy of a grace As long as my arm


The groaning platter there you fill Your buttocks like a distant hill Your skewer would help to repair a mill In time of need While through your pores the juices emerge. Like amber beads


His knife having seen hard labour wipes And cuts you up with great skill Digging into your gushing insides bright, Like any ditch And then oh what a glorious sight Warm steaming, rich


Then spoon for spoon They stretch and strive Devil take the last man, on they drive Until all their well swollen bellies Are bent like drums Then, the old gent most likely to rift (burp) Be thanked, mumbles


Is there that over his French Ragout Or olio that would sicken a pig Or fricassee would make her vomit With perfect disgust, Looks down with a sneering scornful opinion, On such a dinner


Poor devil, see him over his trash As week as a withered rush (reed) His spindle-shank a good whiplash His clenched fist. the size of a nut. Through a bloody flood and battle field to dash, Oh how unfit


But take note of the strong haggis fed Scot. The trembling earth resounds his tread Clasped in his large fist a blade He'll make it whistle And legs and arms and heads he will cut off, Like the tops of thistles


You powers who make mankind your care And dish them out their meals Old Scotland wants no watery food That splashes in dishes But if you wish her grateful prayer Give her a haggis!


8. Yes Minister / Yes Prime Minister


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