Greetings on Burns night! We’re not having haggis at home tonight because we’re going to a Burns Supper on Friday; however I was inspired to shell out £9.99 for this bottle of wine which, apparently, ‘gangs wi haggis’, and will report back on whether it does what it says on the label. The wine is made, from local brambles and oak leaves, by Cairn O’Mhor, that great Scottish winery on the north banks of the Tay, maybe 20 minutes’ drive from here. I wrote previously about our visit there; it was hugely enjoyable and I’m looking forward to our next foray.
Meantime, in remembrance of the Bard’s birth, I just want to say:
- Yes I like Burns’ poems and songs, or at least most of them No poet or songwriter gets it right all the time, and undoubtedly some of his work can fairly be consigned to the doggerel-and-drivel bucket. But then he penned such stirring stuff as ‘A man’s a man for a’ that’, and poked such fun at the powers that be (‘O Thou who in the heavens dost dwell…’) and regaled us with great stories (‘… and shouted, Weel done, Cutty Sark!/ and in an instant, all was dark …’) and gave us lots of tender wee odes to fieldmice and mountain daisies and headlice. It’s a great thing for Scotland to have a bard who has travelled the world in terms of popularity and raises our flag in all sorts of good ways. However –
- You’d think Robert Burns was the only poet we ever produced. What about Edwin Morgan? Liz Lochhead? Norman McCaig? Kathleen Jamie? and so on and so on. Next week the troubadour and I are going to a Celtic Connections event to see the Hazey Janes, a Dundee band, perform alongside Liz Lochhead reading some of her poems, and it promises to be a great night. And finally ….
- Haggis is not the only foodstuff to have inspired a poem. I’m sure you all know that. Recently I read a brilliant blogpost, which I’ve linked to here, which addressed a juicy poem about tomatoes, by Pablo Neruda. Here’s a tiny extract: ‘It sheds its own light, benign majesty. Unfortunately, we must murder it: the knife sinks into living flesh, red …’
So there you go. Let’s celebrate poets tonight, living and dead; and here’s a prayer in Burns’ own words:
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 comin yet for a’ that,
That Man to Man the warld o’er
Shall brithers be for a’ that.