This excerpt from A Cotter's Saturday Night is Robert Burns' idyll of family life in a small farmer's cottage in 18th century Scotland. A cotter was given accommodation which he paid for by giving his labour to neighbouring farmers who either owned, or tenanted their farms. Does such a family exist now either in fact or in spirit ? Let's hope so.
November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;
The short'ning winter-day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh;
The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose:
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes --
This night his weekly moil is at an end,
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes,
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend.
At length his lonely cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through
To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise and glee.
His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie,
His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile,
His lisping infants, prattling on his knee,
Does a' his weary carking cares beguile,
And makes him quite forget his labor and his toil.
Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in,
At service out, amang the farmers roun';
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin
A cannie errand to a neebor town:
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown,
In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e,
Comes hame; perhaps, to shew a braw new gown,
Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee,
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.
With joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet,
And each for other's weelfare kindly spiers:
The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet;
Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears.
The parents partial eye their hopeful years;
Anticipation forward points the view;
The mother, wi' her needle and her sheers,
Gars auld claes look amainst as weel's the new;
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due.
Their master's and their mistress's command
The younkers a' are warned to obey
And mind their labors wi' an eydent hand,
And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play:
And O! be sure to fear the Lord always,
And mind your duty, duly, morn and night;
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray,
Implore His counsel and assisting might:
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright.'
But hark! a rap comes gently to the door;
Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same,
Tells how a neebor lad came o'er the moor,
To do some errands, and convoy her hame.
The wily mother sees the conscious flame
Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek;
With heart-struck anxious care, enquires his name,
While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak;
Weel-pleas'd the mother hears, it's nae wild worthless rake.
With kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben;
A strappin' youth, he takes the mother's eye;
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill taen;
The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye.
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy,
But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave;
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy
What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae grave;
Weel-pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave.
O happy love! where love like this is found:
O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare!
I've paced much this weary, mortal round,
And sage experience bids me this declare:-
'If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare,
One cordial in this melancholy vale,
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair,
In other's arms, breathe out the tender tale
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale.'
Is there, in human form, that bears a heart,
A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth!
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art,
Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth?
Curse on his perjur'd arts! dissembling, smooth!
Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exil'd?
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth,
Points to the parents fondling o'er their child?
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild?
Comments
Calum Strathie comments : Thanks for a Cotter's Saturday Nicht. What a wonderful observer of the human condition was oor Rabbie. I'm sure that in another age he would have made use of his communication and interpersonal skills to inspire and activate others. He would have had great pleasure in pricking pomposities and giant egos with his very sharp pen. Just think what he could do with the present government, MPs and lords on the fiddle, bankers or so called 'celebrities' on TV!
Alan MacQuarrie writes : I love The Cottar’s Saturday Nicht, but there must be an element of irony in the last 2 or 3 verses you quote here. Burns was an inspired and insightful poet, but he was also – I’m sorry to say – an appalling sexual predator. People nowadays condemn the kirk sessions who rebuked him for his antics, but they saw themselves as protecting young women from his predatory behaviour. I really don’t know what to think of Burns. He had charm, wit, good looks and endless talent, but he was also a very naughty young man who got lots of people into trouble in the days before contraception. I love his verse, and the wonderful folk-tunes he collected. But I also think he was very naughty and gave little thought to the consequences of his actions for others.
This isn’t a rant. I just don’t know what to think about Burns. So much to enjoy, but …
Alex Russon comments : I listened to Alex Salmond on Desert Island Discs on Friday. He was gushing about Burns I know why now.
Jeremy Millar scrieves : Fit like yersel. thanks for the Burn's day reflection. we will offer a Burn's nicht meal tae twa lassies far frae hame, freends o oor dochter.
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