Robert Burns - The Bard of Scotland

Tonight I'm attending a supper in honor of Robert Burns. Who is Robert Burns you say? Well here are some of his greatest hits:

O, my luve is like a red, red rose,

That's newly sprung in June.

O, my luve is like a melodie,

That's sweetly play'd in tune.

Or maybe you've heard this ditty sung on New Year's Eve:

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And never brought to mind?

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And auld lang syne?

(By the way, does anyone know the rest of the lyrics, or do you just hum along or mumble the words?)

Robert Burns is pretty much the patron saint of Scotland (along with St. Andrew and Sean Connery, professional Scotsman) or near enough. A poet and chick magnet (what is with women and poets?), who grew up poor on a farm but well read. His poems are written chiefly in Scottish dialect. Besides writing poetry, his interests included drinking a lot of whisky and shagging many women.

Apparently, he was such a dude with the ladies, that other men used to have Burns write love letters for them like Cyrano de Bergerac. Looking at the above picture, he wasn't half bad.

He moved to Edinburgh after his first collection of poems was published, where he became a national celebrity. Although famous, he was still broke, not having such things as royalties back then. So he took a job as an exciseman (like another writer Herman Melville who was forced to toil at the Customs House in New York). He died at the rather young age of 37 of heart disease exacerbated by a life of excess and hard manual labor.

When he died, 10,000 people came to watch and pay their respects. This was back when Scotland wasn’t exactly running over with people. He was the equivalent of a modern day rock star. Can you imagine 10,000 people turning up for a poet’s death today?

Every year on the anniversary of his death, Scots celebrate Burns with a supper, where they address the haggis, and drink lots of whiskey. Really just an ordinary day in Scotland, but they dress it up for Robert Burns.

This is the ode to the haggis, which is basically a sheep's stomach filled with rolled oats, spices, and other bits that I don't even want to know.

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 of a grace

As lang's my arm.

(I have no idea what that all means since it's a Scottish dialect but you get the drift).

Impossibly handsome British friend (who celebrated his birthday yesterday) is none to fond of RB. He once declared that Burns’ poems were ‘crap.’ Being the sarcastic cow that I am, I suggested that he dress up in a kilt, and do a one man show called “Crap, and other crap, the poems of Robert Burns.’ I think it would have been a big hit at the Edinburgh Festival don't you think?

Slainte!