It’s the 25th of January, which means we’ve nearly made it through this grey, seemingly interminable month – surely the longest month of the year. For Scottish people, and literature lovers across the globe, this day brings a moment of colour and relief amidst the dank, dricht January nights – for Robert Burns was born in Alloway on this day in 1759 – meaning that tonight is Burns night.
Robbie or Rabbie Burns transformed English language poetry; not only did he preserve many old Scottish folk songs, he also acted as a forerunner for the Romantic poetry movement that followed him. That’s romantic with a big R of course, but he also wrote possibly the world’s greatest love poem which it seems appropriate to share on this day:
The Brontës were keen poetry lovers and keen fans of all things Scottish, with James Hogg and, especially, Walter Scott being among the writers they adored and were influenced by. There can be little doubt that they also knew Burns’ poetry which was becoming increasingly popular and influential during the time they lived. One song which Burns set down on paper, and immortalised forever, was Auld Lang Syne, and it’s one that we know Anne Brontë especially valued. Anne’s music book contains the words and score to it written out in Anne’s own hand, so perhaps she and Emily Brontë played and sang it together during new year celebrations at Haworth Parsonage?
It’s also clear that Burns was a particular hero of Branwell Brontë. Branwell wrote a poem entitled ‘Robert Burns’, of which this fragment remains:
‘He little knows – whose life has smoothly passed
Unharmed by storm or strife, undimmed by care
Who – clad in purple laughs at every blast
Wrapped up contented in the joys that are
He little knows the long and truceless war
Of one on poverty’s rough waters cast
With eyes fixed forward on the glorious Star
That from fames temple beams – alas! How far
Til backward buffeted o’er ocean’s waste.’
It’s clearly a day for poetry, so I will leave you now with a poem by the Bard of Ayrshire himself – his immortal ‘Address To A Haggis’. I’m off to cook my neeps and tatties now, but I hope you can join me next week for another new Brontë blog post:
‘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.
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 ye up wi’ ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie 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 like 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 owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither’d rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro’ bluidy 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 make 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!’