The Holy Fair

A robe of seeming truth and trust
Hid crafty observation;
And secret hung, with poison'd crust,
The dirk of Defamation:
A mask that like the gorget show'd,
Dye-varying, on the pigeon;
And for a mantle large and broad,
He wrapt him in Religion.
(from the "The Holy Fair," by Robert Burns)

Clippings and Letters

I have now been a week at salt water, & though I think I have got some good
by it yet I have some secret fears--that this business will be dangerous if not fatal.-- (Rabbie's letter to his father-in-law, James Armour, 10 July 1796)

"A newspaper clipping mentioned that the State Entomologist had retired to become Adviser on Shade Trees, and one wondered whether this was not some dainty oriental euphemism for death" (Bend Sinister, Vladimir Nabokov)

And on the other side of these are moths and mothers.

My learned foes

A random choosing...you know, that little game we humans play with books where we open them and hope to find something interesting.

But it does make me smile a bit because it seems a bit appropriate. Following are some lines from Epistle to J. Lapraik, An Old Scotch Bard (1785), by the Bard, of course:

I am nae Poet, in a sense,
But just a Rhymer like by chance,
An hae to Learning nae pretence,
Yet, what the matter?
When'er my Muse does on me glance,
I jingle at her.

Your Critic-folk may cock their nose,
And say, 'How can you e'er propose,
You wha ken hardly verse frae prose,
To mak a song?'
But by your leaves, my learned foes,
Ye're maybe wrang.

What's a your jargon o your Schools,
Your Latin names for horns an stools;
If honest Nature made you fools,
What sairs your Grammers?
Ye'd better taen up spades and shools,
Or knappin-hammers.

A set o dull, conceited Hashes,
Confuse their brains in Colledge-classes!
They gang in Stirks, and come out Asses,
Plain truth to speak;
An syne they think to climb Parnassus
By dint o Greek!

Gie me ae spark o Nature's fire,
That's a the learning I desire;
Then tho I drudge thro dub an mire
At pleugh or cart,
My Muse, tho hameley in attire,
May touch the heart....

But MAUCHLINE Race or MAUCHLINE Fair,
I should be proud to meet you there;
We'se gie ae night's discharge to care,
If we forgather,
An hae a swap o rhymin-ware,
Wi ane anither....

Of course, those of us that have the Muse and Nature's fire, but not enough money to pay for time to confuse our brains in colledge classes must content ourselves with Rabbie's sentiments, but we will always wonder where we could've gotten if we had been able to come out Asses.

After all, one needs a degree to climb Mount Parnassus. It matters not if honest Nature made you a fool, as long as your Grammar is good enough to hide behind.

(side note: the spellcheck on Blogger doesn't believe the contraction "could've" exists! How very interesting.)

image: Shakespeare (Chandos), full of Nature's fire, hamely in attire, mystifies mountain climbers.

Jean, Jean, Dressed In Green

This Bard doesn't much feel up to writing the history of the American Lawgiver, Tekanawita, at the moment. Great Laws of Peace only work for a time, disappearing under the heaps of laws piled upon them stinking up the air, causing false religious practices and legalism to spring up like noxious weeds.

Look at the most famous man of the Law, Moses. He brought down 10 very basic laws to live by (plus a few more), but as is the way with people, this was not enough. Over the years there were many more laws and rituals added on until it became a competition to see who could complete the most rituals, tithe the most, and know the law the best.

Now, we are living in the most religious time of all. We are quite medieval in our superstitious fear of the earth, in our belief that we can save it with tithes/indulgences/carbon credits/whatever. We are quite Hitlerian in our obsession with eradicating cancer, smoking, meat, and undesirables. And we are much like East Berlin before the fall of the wall, in our self-censoring. We are very Roman Catholic in our favoring the community over the individual. We are very Roman Catholic in our belief that those who do not want to worship the earth religion, pay indulgences, or participate in its sacred rites are called heretics.

Who are the priests making the tons of money off our ignorance? Who are the ones pushing those toxic fluorescent time bombs called light bulbs on us? If they really cared, if they really wanted what was best for the serfs, the High Priests of Mother Earth and Global Consciousness would not allow mercury-filled toxins in our homes and into the landfills. The Green People don't care about this wonderful land, and they hate all of the pernicious people who continue the multiply in spite of their laws. They only care about Green Money and "sustainability."

And so, the Bard would like to conclude with a sweet song of Jean. Here, the Bard has it all figured out. Our relationship with the earth is one of images which are to remind us of something better. No river, no flower, no bird compares with Bonny Jean. If the Bard had written of how Jean did not compare with the hills, the flowers, the birds or the air, he would not have been a poet, but an unmentionable dupe. Jean wins. The beautiful earth and its creatures remind us of her, and should also remind us of their Creator.

"I Love My Jean"

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west,
For there the bony Lassie lives,
The Lassie I lo'e the best:
There's wild-woods grow, and rivers row,
And mony a hill between;
But day and night my fancy's flight
Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair;
I hear her in the tunefu' birds,
I hear her charm the air:
There's not a bony flower, that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green,
There's not a bony bird that sings,
But minds me o' my Jean

Image: Praire by Ken Furrow

Epitaph of the Amused

"A Bard's Epitaph" by Robert Burns

Is there a whim-inspired fool,
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,

Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,

Let him draw near;
And owre this grassy heap sing dool,
And drap a tear.

Is there a bard of rustic song,
Who noteless, steals the crowds among,

That weekly this area throng,
O, pass not by!
But, with a frater-feeling strong,
Here, heave a sigh.

Is there a man, whose judgment clear
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career,
Wild as the wave,
Here pause-and, thro' the starting tear,
Survey this grave.

The poor inhabitant below
Was quick to learn the wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,
And softer flame;
But thoughtless follies laid him low,
And stain'd his name!

Reader, attend! whether thy soul
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole,
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole,
In low pursuit:
Know, prudent, cautious, self-control
Is wisdom's root.

Prudent, cautious, self-control, wisdom's root. But Rabbie never had any of this and none of this makes the Bard what he is, and it is those enrapt in my thoughtless follies, those laid low by them that stop to drap a tear.

While I toast the haggis, and drink the wine, make the fellows laugh; across the countryside bonnie lasses cry in the dark. Were it not for them, the secret and not-so-secret muses, thinking they are getting while I am taking there would not even be a Bard.

Were it not for the Nellies, Peggies, Alisons and all the rest there would not be a Bard at all. There would be only a sad, overworked, and poor man named Robert Burness. For the love of a woman, the chase of the muse that amused me, there would be no verse and no epitaph. And so, I must ask, is it I that am the Bard, or only the voice of the bonnie lasses once young, once loved, always loved and always forever in my song? I have an epitaph, they live on--even if I broke their hearts.

And as I wax on I must advise, find a muse and she will educate you more than all the universities in the world, for she can inspire even a lowly farm laborer to sing the song of a country and of time. "O, Once I Lov'd a Bonnie Lass...."

Haggis We Can Believe In

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

And so, I've inaugurated the haggis once again. The theme of this year's Burns Supper was "Hope and Change In a World Changin' For Hope and Hopin' For Change." And I learned that no matter the casing a haggis is still a haggis. It makes no matter how much whiskey is downed, the haggis will not be drowned. I have only now recovered from my birthday supper, and even now I am not sure the haggis has quit haunting me.

The haggis, full of variety (oats and others), was blessed in a fitting manner. It is not adequate to bestow upon the ineffable haggis an elegant blessing, but rather one that represents the delicacy in its entirety of unidentifiable goodness. In the spirit of the haggis and of its being an all-in-one kind of treat the Rev. Robinson dished out an appropriate blessing:

"O God of our many understandings, we pray that you will...
Bless us with tears...
Bless us with anger...
Bless us with discomfort...
Bless us with patience...."

To which we all raised our glasses in hearty agreement. One of our number added, "And where brown can stick around!"

Obviously, this was a guest unfamiliar with haggis and its habit of doing exactly that, not to mention all of the things Rev. Robinson prayed for.

Another Reverend, Mr. Warren, already having tippled too much, hoping to numb his senses, finished the blessing with, "in the name of the one who changed my life, Yeshua, Isa, Jesus, Jesus (hay-SOOS)--" Until someone jabbed him, telling him he'd miscounted, turning one onto many more. And another person joked about a game we could play called "Pin The Name On the God, or Pin Jesus' Name on Any God." Another person mentioned that Isa didn't belong in the number of names, but Yesua. Then an argument ensued about mathematical matters and the Koran.

Napoleon Bonaparte raised his glass, remembering times past (earlier in the day he had told me the Supper should be called the Napoleon Supper, but I ended that with threats of banishment to a desolate island. He replied that being in Scotland was banishment, but relented).

"I was full of dreams," Napoleon began, " I saw myself founding a new Religion, marching into Asia, riding an elephant, a turban on my head and in my hand, the new Qu'ran."

A fellow next to Napoleon patted him on the shoulder, reminding him that this was a respectable Burns Supper, not a dream, and that no elephants were running loose in Scotland. Napoleon's eyes widened.

"Aha! But there is me!" Napoleon jumped up onto the table, "Finally! Scotland, 'O my Luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June:
O my Luve's like the melodie,
That's sweetly play'd in tune.'

"Now is the time of a new June, a new hope! 'A leader is a dealer in hope,' and I am the vision of that hope. 'I am the state. I am the Revolution!'"

I looked up at him and reminded him that he once said "From the sublime to the ridiculous is but a step."

Napoleon turned to glare at me, tottered and lost his step, crashing to the floor, where he lay stunned.

Another raised his glass and cleared his throat, "Excuse me, but 'the vision for change comes from, first and foremost, it comes from me, uh, that's my job -- is to provide a vision.' When you were talking about the 'dealer in hope,' it was me you meant, Leon. Sorry to burst your bubble."

Napoleon blinked in disbelief and began to get back upon his feet as the newcomer continued, "We must pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and begin again the work of remaking America."

"America, America!" Napoleon spluttered, "Even that I made. Without me, there would be no hope, no America as you know it! I gave it to you for pennies, and I will own it again! Yes, we'll 'begin again the work of retaking America!' Viva la Revolution!"

The newcomer continued, "On this day, we gather because we have chosen hope over fear, unity of purpose over conflict and discord."

"Hear, hear!" We all cheered in hope that the haggis would not frighten our fortitude. We got down to the united purpose of attacking the haggis. But the haggis is the haggis and it conflicted and discorded, overriding any hope for change this Supper.

Napoleon could not restrain one last outburst, standing abruptly and declaring, "I have been called upon to change the face of the world!" And threw the remainder of his haggis against the wall. He walked out of the room, muttering about how there would be hope in a new age free of the haggis. That would be change to believe in.

When we had finished our haggis, a young person; a person full of haggis, hope, and change (who had never read Robert Burns once), pulled out the latest literary technology, something called an iPoet.

"Look at this. Anyone can write poetry, now. You press a key and it speaks a word, making poetry." Everyone huddled around the device, listening. A stilted,electronic robo-female voice began reciting something called "Praise Song for the Day" (Elizabeth Alexander).

"Someone-is-trying-to-make-music-somewhere-with-a-pair-of-wooden-spoons-on-an-oil-drum-with-cello,-boom-box-harmonica-voice," the electronic voice told us. I had never tried to make music, especially with wooden spoons or boom boxes. I had made music and addressed the haggis. I quietly edged away, wondering where Napoleon's discarded haggis was. Perhaps, I could resurrect it and it too could make poetry. Who knows. The haggis in my gutt certainly was poetic. Sooon, poetic tears were streaming down my cheeks.

"We-need-to-find-a-place-where-we-are-safe;-we-walk-into-that-which-we-cannot-see..." The voice droned on. These are the last words of the Burns Supper that I can recall. I had a strange sensation of uneasiness building in my gutt, and my eyes were burning and streaming. In my hurry to get out into the fresh air, to find a safe place, I walked into the hard wall, struck down in my glazed-over condition. I was out cold until this morning. Even now, I wonder if it was real or if the haggis caused an adverse reaction in my head. In the end the haggis wins.

"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!"

Robert Bard Burns will tak a cup o kindness yet, before paidlin i the burn

"Auld Lang Syne"

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to min?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o lang syne?

We twa hae rin about the braes,
And puid the gowans fine;
But we've wanderd monie a weary fit,
Sin auld lang syne.

We twae hae paidlt i the burn,
Frae mornin sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roard
Sin auld lang syne.

And here'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.

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.

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We'll tak a cup o kindness yet,
For auld lang syne. (Robert Burns, 1788)

Ah, what is there to say, that the Bard doesn't? It's even more beautiful than the old movies make it. How do you suppose "fiere" (friend) is pronounced? I hope that you and your fier(i)es had a "guid-willie waught for auld lang syne," and didn't fall from the brae into the burn afterwards!

P.S. It's all quite clear now. The reason American English has no accent, no brogue, no slant, is because once the Pilgrims landed on Plymouth and found clear water, they no longer had to drink the beer to make the water safe. Once beer was eliminated from the daily diet the language lost its character.

Honestly, English speakers all sound like Scots or Irish poets when they've lifted their "pint-stowp" a few too many times. Why has no one noticed this before?