Tonight is Burns night.
The story goes something like this. Robert Burns, the 18th century poet lauriet of Scotland (who wrote such classics as "My Love Is Like a Red, Red Rose", "Sweet Afton", and "Auld Lang Syne") was such a marvelous wordsmith and lusty Scot that admirers through the years have set aside this night (his birthday) to honor the bard with meat and ale. Afterwards, it is customary to recline in the comfy chair, one's pint in one's hand, and recite or sing prose or poems written by or in the spirit of Robert Burns. Each recitation is followed by a toast--and if the evening gets long, several folks can end up under the table (though since the pastor hosts this occasion, we try to keep that sort of thing to a minimum).
Music plays a large part in our festivities--we guitarists have spent every evening this week writing, planning, practicing, harmonizing, and preparing to wow the revelers with song. Jo and Puddy worked late last night adding parts for soprano recorder and percussion. The opening songs will all be authored by Burns; as the night progresses, the music will probably lapse into James Taylor and John Denver (our specialties)--but after enough ale, everything sounds Scottish.
Meanwhile, a highlands feast is planned. In the past, the dinner has been endured rather than enjoyed (with absolutely no offense to the cook--it is very difficult to find Scottish food that's appetizing), but the fare gets a bit better every year. And after a certain amount of Scotch, it all tastes good.
In conclusion, I have posted 2 poems honoring Burns. The first is his own work, and the second was written for this celebration a few years ago by Remy Wilkins. Enjoy.
"Of a' the airts"
Of a' the airts the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west,
For there the bonie lassie lives,
The lassie I lo'e best:
There's wild-woods grow, and rivers row,
And mony a hill between:
But day and night my fancys' flight
Is ever wi' my Jean.
I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair:
I hear her in the tunefu' birds,
I hear her charm the air:
There's not a bonie flower that springs,
By fountain, shaw, or green;
There's not a bonie bird that sings,
But minds me o' my Jean.
"The Drinking Poet"
Let me be a Robert Burns, glad to tip a drink and sing.
Happy, brave, and full of love, not one for words in whispering,
Nor one to pass a flower and not praise Spring.
Snickering at florid types, who drip our ears with honey flow
And lick them clean with lazy tongue, which falsify his poet show.
Lacking laughs and wits, he quits and spits the status quo.
Let me dance like Robert Burns, elbows and claps to tipping hats,
And walk the muddy paths with measured stomp.
Let me heat the ladies’ collars and ruffle the mind of scholars,
Then kick the shins with outs and ins and twist the nose of poetic pomp.
Splashed in earth I fling new life onto the men whom Beauty spurns,
And take their hearts, which have no heart, and fill it with a heart that yearns
To be united now as three with me, and Robert Burns.
Let me be a Robert Burns, glad to tip a drink and sing.
Happy, brave, and full of love, not one for words in whispering,
Nor one to pass a star without a swing.