Showing posts with label Robert Burns. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Robert Burns. Show all posts

Thursday, 25 January 2024

 

Dates to remember in January 2024 – 4  

1787 Portrait of Robert Burns by Alexander Nasmyth (1758-1840)

Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Robert Burns, often fondly known as Rabbie Burns, is the national poet and treasure of Scotland. He was born on 25th January, 1759 and is honoured for his verse, much of which was written in a Scottish dialect that was accessible to English readers.

He wrote Auld Lang Syne, which is sung at midnight on New Year’s Eve (Scottish Hogmanay) across the world. Another of his romantic poems has been beautifully set to the music of an older tune, ‘Major Graham’.

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.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my Dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my Dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun:
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only Luve!
And fare thee weel, a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho’ it were ten thousand mile!

Burns also collected Scottish folk songs. He died, aged 37, on 21st July 1796, on the day his son Maxwell was born.  Rabbie Burns had 12 children, of whom five survived to adulthood. There are currently more than 900 living descendants of Burns.

He is fĂȘted across the world and became ‘the people’s poet’ of Russia. The first commemorative stamp honouring Burns was issued in Russia in 1956. The UK has three times issued commemorative stamps, in 1966, 1996 and 2009. In 1996 the Isle of Man issued a set of four crown coins with themes including Auld Lang Syne.

A crater on Mercury has been named after Burns. His reputation is far-reaching!

Every year, on the anniversary of his birth, proud Scots across the world gather to celebrate their favourite son with food and whisky and maybe a little dancing and verse recital. The evening starts with the Selkirk Grace:

Some hae meat and canna eat,

And some wad eat that want it.

But we hae meat and we can eat

Sae let the Lord be thankit.

The centrepiece of the feast is the haggis, ‘Great Chieftain o’ the Puddin-race’. In essence this is an over-sized sausage made with a sheep’s ‘pluck’ – heart, liver and lungs, lamb ‘trimmings’, onions, oatmeal, pepper, salt, mace, nutmeg, and coriander encased in sheep’s stomach or similar. It is served with neeps and tatties (turnips and potatoes) and piped to the table with bagpipes. Then the haggis is ‘addressed’ by a senior member of the company who ends the eight verses of the recitation by stabbing the haggis with a sharp knife.

There are various recipes for haggis but all are spicy and filling. At the end of the meal toasts are made and replied to. There is a special toast to ‘the immortal memory’ of the poet', often with some reference to his life and works. The evening ends with the singing of Auld Lang Syne.

 SlĂ inte mhath! (Good health)

 January 25th also sees the Welsh celebration of Dydd Santes Dwynwen. This is the Welsh version of St Valentine’s Day and remembers St Dwynwen’s romantic tribulations which led to her becoming a nun. She was a princess, in the 5th century, the loveliest of the king’s 24 daughters. She met and fell in love with the son of a neighbouring king, but her father refused his suit, saying he had already made an arrangement for his daughter. Prince Maelon left the palace in a rage, angry with Dwynwen. She fled to the forest where she cried herself to sleep. When she woke a spirit appeared to her and told her that Maelon had been turned to ice and would not trouble her again. The spirit then granted her three wishes.  Dwynwen’s wishes were that Maelon should be thawed, true love should always conquer all and that she would never fall in love again.

 All three wishes were granted and Dwynwen became a nun, founding a convent on an island off the coast of Anglesey. A well near the convent was named after her and became a place of pilgrimage  after her death. Legend had it that a fish in the well could foretell the future. If the water bubbled when a couple drew near, that meant good fortune for them.



Thursday, 4 July 2013

Slow Down!

Slow Down!
Festival of Britain, 1951
I have always spoken quickly, words tumbling out of my mouth in their rush to get away from me. Even in the classroom I was aware that I was speaking too fast and tried to moderate the speed, without success. Add to that my clipped delivery and fairly quiet voice and you may understand that most people have difficulty hearing what I’m saying. (Naturally, when I was teaching, I ensured that my voice was loud enough to be heard – sometimes very loud. I can project very well when required to do so.)

As an example, this is what my writing looks like these days before I correct it . . . I hace alwysa spoeken qycjkty, words tumblins our of my nmuth in th r rush to gwe awat form me.
Lincolnshire, 1964
Of course, it may just be my poor touch-typing but it is a fact that it is getting progressively worse. It would appear that the less I speak the more my fingers tangle in the keys and produce gobbledegook. When I stopped going out to work (I refused to say I had retired, such vanity! I was not of retirement age and did not wish to be considered OLD) I relished the prospect of not having to talk all day and now I am almost monosyllabic. (You must allow for exaggeration here!)

Now, when required to conduct some sort of social interaction I often fumble for words, desperate to respond intelligibly and not in an ELDERLY fashion and then I see myself as youngsters see me – past it, bless her. It happened the other day when I went to the hospital to have my eyes dealt with (Visual Fields, don’t you know – all those flashing lights, a patch over one eye and then the other and the buzzer in my hand. I’m sure you know the form:  ’Press the buzzer when you see the white light, keep your eye on the orange light in the centre, don’t search for the white light,’ with the result that I frantically press the buzzer, afraid I might miss one of the spots or think back and realise I have missed one. I listen to the buzzers all around me and hear the ophthalmologist explaining patiently to others what they must do and tell myself to concentrate.)

Both eyes having been tested the pleasant young woman (very young . . . how old could she be? Surely not old enough to be doing this job?) asked me, as she had asked every other person, ‘Have you any other appointments today?’ (What did she think? Was I going to have my mental acuity tested or a prosthetic limb fixed?) and that’s when my quick-wittedness came to my aid as I mumbled, ‘No,’ and she said lightly, ‘Oh, another one with no other appointments so you’re free to go now,’ which is when I compounded my elderliness by saying, ‘I’ve got another appointment on July 22nd,’ thus proving that my memory is not quite shot yet. I wanted to stride out of the room in a parody of youthful energy but my bag strap was stuck under the chair and as I fumbled to free it she came to my aid and picked it up for me. I think she was quite surprised at the weight of it. She didn’t exactly grunt as she lifted it, but I had the impression of renewed respect.

As for stepping out smartly, that was never going to happen. For two months I had sciatica which dissipated to be replaced by pain in my hips (one or other, sometimes both), the result of walking badly because of the sciatica *sigh*. After I’ve been sitting for a while I stiffen and it takes a while to unbend and so I hobbled out, pride not quite intact, thus completing the image of a poor old dear.

Who was it said, ‘Would that we could see ourselves as others see us’?* I’d rather not, thank you. It’s enough of a shock to encounter myself in the mirror and too off-putting to realise that a young slip of a lad or lass is looking at me unable, or unwilling, to understand that one day they too will be old(er).

*I cannot let pass a quotation without checking it to make sure I have it correct. (Is this another instance of impending – or ongoing – decrepitude? Or OCD?) In this case, I didn’t . . .  have it correct, that is. I paraphrased the immortal words of Robert Burns, Rabbie to his familiars:-

O, wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as others see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us,
An' foolish notion. 

 Robert Burns, The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Burns
Blandford, 2013