Burns Night

Today or tonight rather, is the annual celebration of the poet, Robert Burns.

It is only recently that I've become acquainted with all that celebrating "Burns Night" entails, which seems to revolve around the preparation of various Scottish gastronomy such as haggis with "neeps" and "tattie", Scottish tart, and of course generous and copious amounts of whisky.

I confess I am not properly initiated. Love of Burns' poetry yes, but I had to ask on Twitter what neeps and tatties actually are (Swedish potatoes and turnips that are boiled and mashed separately).

Haggis on the other hand is a sheep's stomach stuffed with "sheep's pluck" - the liver, heart, and lungs mixed with onions, oatmeal, suet, spices, and stock that is simmered for three hours. I tried a bite once.

But what I love about Burns Night is how much love the Scots have for their national poet. It's akin to the way we French celebrate Victor Hugo, except oddly enough there is no official food associated with this celebration.

My initiation into the poems of Robert Burns was his poem "To A Mouse". At the time I was obsessed with all things Steinbeck. I had just finished one of his most heart wrenching tales, "Of Mice and Men" when a teacher of mine opened up a book of collected poems and pointed out a verse from Burns' poem.

Burns original verse:

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.

Standard English translation:

But little Mouse, you are not alone,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes of mice and men
Go often askew,
And leave us nothing but grief and pain,
For promised joy! 

 But the poem that really made me fall in love with Burns as a poet is his poem "To A Mountain Daisy".

It gave me such a romantic image of this poet, who, having ploughed over a simple daisy turned his feelings into poetry. I was touched from the very first verse:

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,
Thou's met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem:
To spare thee now is past my pow'r,
Thou bonie gem. 

I prefer Burns' original to the standard English translation, but you can read both versions of "To A Mountain Daisy" side by side here.

It remains to this day my favourite of all of Burns' poems and when I think of him, as I do this morning on the 253rd anniversary of his birth, it still evokes from my "breastie" as Burns might say, the same tender emotion that made me see that there is beauty in even the most ordinary flower even if it not as revered as a Red, Red Rose.

Happy birthday Rabbie Burns.

An added treat gifted via Twitter from Scots actors Alan Cumming for Burns Night.