ROBERT BURNS

1759-1796

POET

National Poet in the village of Alloway, near Ayr, has been a well-visited place for Burns enthusiasts for years. Robert was the eldest of 7 children born to Wm. Burnes (it was spelled Burnes in his father's day) a market gardener and Agnes Jones Brown Burnes, his mother.
The cottage was built by William's own hands. It sat on 7 1/2 acres of land. Here, amid hardship and poverty William saw to it that his sons were well educated. Robert was an avid reader, developing a command of vocabulary and literary English and a love of folk songs. His mother could not read, but knew many old songs and sang them to the family.
Robbie Burns entered the world on a cold January day. He was born in the kitchen of the one story humble dwelling built by his father.  
While in Edinburgh he met two music publishers, James Johnson and George Thompson two music publishers, to whose collection of songs burns was contributing right up until his death in 1796. Burns first love was song.   Burns died on July 21, 1796

He had a keen ear for music and a keen sense of rhythm. Many of his original manuscripts are on display at the museum in the park and many 1st Editions of the works of Robert. Robert Burns rescued some 360 folk songs, polished the old work or wrote new ones (those were his Dumfriesshire years).  
He penned his earliest poems when he was but fifteen and he never composed a song without first having a tune in his head. It becomes quickly apparent he was much more than a poet, but also a song writer and a lyricist.  
Among the Museum's treasures is the original manuscript of 'Auld Lang Syne' (meant to be a greeting song, it has become treasured as a parting song) hangs on one wall.  
The Bard's works are as fresh today as they were when written. His memory is indeed immortal and one expects at any moment to see him sitting in the cottage or museum, at the desk, penning books, songs, lyrics. Books piled around him, (I like to think, like mine are around me as I write) doing what he loved most, writing.  
Burns Night is celebrated on January 25^th to mark the anniversary of his birth in 1759 when a "blast o' Janwar' in' blew hansel."

Born in Alloway, Ayrshire, in 1759 to William Burness, a poor tenant farmer, and Agnes Broun, Robert Burns was the eldest of seven. He spent his youth working his father's farm, but in spite of his poverty he was extremely well read - at the insistence of his father, who employed a tutor for Robert and younger brother Gilbert. At 15 Robert was the principal worker on the farm and this prompted him to start writing in an attempt to find "some kind of counterpoise for his circumstances." It was at this tender age that Burns penned his first verse, "My Handsome Nell", which was an ode to the other subjects that dominated his life, namely scotch and women.

When his father died in 1784, Robert and his brother became partners in the farm. However, Robert was more interested in the romantic nature of poetry than the arduous graft of ploughing and, having had some misadventures with the ladies (resulting in several illegitimate children, including twins to the woman who would become his wife, Jean Armour), he planned to escape to the safer, sunnier climes of the West Indies.

However, at the point of abandoning farming, his first collection "Poems- Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect - Kilmarnock Edition" (a set of poems essentially based on a broken love affair), was published and received much critical acclaim. This, together with pride of parenthood, made him stay in Scotland. He moved around the country, eventually arriving in Edinburgh, where he mingled in the illustrious circles of the artists and writers who were agog at the "Ploughman Poet."

In a matter of weeks he was transformed from local hero to a national celebrity, fussed over by the Edinburgh literati of the day, and Jean Armour's father allowed her to marry him, now that he was no longer a lowly wordsmith. Alas, the trappings of fame did not bring fortune and he took up a job as an excise man to supplement the meagre income. Whilst collecting taxes he continued to write, contributing songs to the likes of James Johnston's "Scot's Musical Museum" and George Thomson's "Select Collection of Original Scottish Airs." In all, more than 400 of Burns' songs are still in existence.

The last years of Burns' life were devoted to penning great poetic masterpieces such as 'The Lea Rig', 'Tam O'Shanter' and a 'Red, Red Rose'. He died aged 37 of heart disease exacerbated by the hard manual work he undertook when he was young. His death occurred on the same day as his wife Jean gave birth to his last son, Maxwell.

On the day of his burial more than 10,000 people came to watch and pay their respects. However, his popularity then was nothing compared to the heights it has reached since.

On the anniversary of his birth, Scots both at home and abroad celebrate Robert Burns with a supper, where they address the haggis, the ladies and whisky. A celebration which would undoubtedly make him proud.

THE POEM

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!
 

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

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't!
 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!
 

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell-
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!
 

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o' mice an 'men
Gang aft agley,
An'lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me
The present only toucheth thee:
But, Och! I backward cast my e'e.
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!
 

1

THE POEM

TRANSLATION

Is there for honest poverty
That hings his head, an a' that?
The coward slave, we pass him by
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an a' that!
Our toils obscure, an a' that,
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The man's the gowd for a' that.

Is there for honest poverty
That hangs his head, and all that?
The coward slave, we pass him by
We dare be poor for all that!
For all that, and all that!
Our toils obscure, and all that,
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The man's the gold for all that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodding grey, an a' that?
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine
A man's a man for a' that.
For a' that, an a' that,
Their tinsel show, an a' that,
The honest man, tho e'er sae poor,
Is king o men for a' that.

What though on homely fare we dine,
Wear coarse wollen cloth, and all that?
Give fools their silks, and knaves their wine
A man's a man for all that.
For all that, and all that,
Their tinsel show, and all that,
The honest man, though ever so poor,
Is king of men for all that.
 

Ye see yon birkie ca'd `a lord,
Wha struts, an stares, an a' that?
Tho hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a cuif for a' that.
For a' that, an a' that,
His ribband, star, an a' that,
The man o' independent mind,
He looks an laughs at a' that.

Ye see that fellow called a lord,
Who struts, an stares, and all that?
Though hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a fool for all that.
For all that, and all that,
His ribband, star, and all that,
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at all that.
 

A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an a' that!
But an honest man's aboon his might
Guid faith, he mauna fa' that!
For a' that, an a' that,
Their dignities, an a' that,
The pith o' sense an pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that.

A prince can make a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and all that!
But an honest man's above his might
Good faith, he must not fail that!
For all that, and all that,
Their dignities, and all that,
The pith of sense and pride of worth,
Are higher rank than all that.

Then let us pray that come it may
(As come it will for a' that),
That Sense and Worth o'er a' the earth,
Shall bear the gree an a' that.
For a' that, an a' that,
It's coming yet for a' that,
That man to man, the world o'er
Shall brithers be for a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may
(As come it will for all that),
That Sense and Worth over all the earth,
Shall have priority and all that.
For all that, and all that,
It's coming yet for all that,
That man to man, the world over
Shall brothers be for all that.