Burn's Night

Tonight it's Burns Night, a celebration of Scotland's greatest poet (born 1759). So now you have a good reason to try haggis. What do you mean, what's it made of???

The annual celebratory tribute to the life, works and spirit of the Scottish poet, Robbie Burns who was born in 1759 and lived just 35 years and died in 1796 (It is widely believed that Burn's early death was due to a medical condition that was aggravated by a heavy drinking habit! He died happy, right? I know, I know, terrible Ryan!

The celebration usually includes a "Burns Supper" range from formal gatherings to informal parties. Most Burns Suppers will have some sort assembling of traditional rituals that includes the eating of a traditional Scottish meal, the drinking of Scotch whisky, and the recitation of works by, about, and in the spirit of the Bard.

I've haven't read too many poems, but I have read this one and enjoy it. I've pasted the easier-to-read English version here. I think it is cunning to compare oneself to a mouse and then relay the "guilt of thought or conscience" to the mouse about oneself, or the act of being human.

To a Mouse
(Whilst ploughing on a November day, Burns ruined the nest of a field mouse. He ponders why the creature runs away in such terror)

Oh, tiny timorous forlorn beast,
Oh why the panic in your breast ?
You need not dart away in haste
To some corn-rickI'd never run and chase thee,
With murdering stick.

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken nature's social union,
And justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startleAt me, thy poor earth-born companion,
And fellow mortal.

I do not doubt you have to thieve;
What then? Poor beastie you must live;
One ear of corn that's scarcely missed
Is small enough:I'll share with you all this year's grist,
Without rebuff.

Thy wee bit housie too in ruin,
Its fragile walls the winds have strewn,
nd you've nothing new to build a new one,
Of grasses green;
And bleak December winds ensuing,
Both cold and keen.

You saw the fields laid bare and waste,
And weary winter coming fast,
And cosy there beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,Till crash;
the cruel ploughman crushed
Thy little cell.

Your wee bit heap of leaves and stubble,
Had cost thee many a weary nibble.
Now you're turned out for all thy trouble
Of house and homeTo bear the winter's sleety drizzle,
And hoar frost cold.

But, mousie, thou art not alane,
In proving foresight may be in vain,
The best laid schemes of mice and men,Go oft astray,
And leave us nought but grief and pain,
To rend our day.

Still thou art blessed, compared with me!
The present only touches thee,
But, oh, I backward cast my eye
On prospects drear,
And forward, though I cannot see,
I guess and fear.


Speaking of "Scottish-ness", apparently Sean Connery has the most pleasant voice to listen to, according to a poll in the Scotsman. It is an interesting article that essentially exhibits the sort of pride that Scots have for their own identity and their sense of "Scottishness". They LOVE their identity, and I can appreciate that!