{"id":2331,"date":"2026-01-25T08:00:27","date_gmt":"2026-01-25T13:00:27","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.sheilaomalley.com\/?p=2331"},"modified":"2026-01-24T16:06:47","modified_gmt":"2026-01-24T21:06:47","slug":"happy-birthday-to-the-ploughman-poet-of-scotland","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.sheilaomalley.com\/?p=2331","title":{"rendered":"\u201cGie me ae spark o’ nature’s fire \/ That’s a’ the learning I desire\u2026\u201d — Robert Burns, “the Ploughman Poet” of Scotland"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"robert-burns\"<\/a><\/p>\n

\n“For my own part I never had the least thought or inclination of turning poet till I got once heartily in Love, and then Rhyme and Song were, in a manner, the spontaneous language of my heart.” — Robert Burns<\/big><\/p>\n

Robert Burns was born on this day in the middle of the 18th century. His family was very poor, they were farmers, he had a lot of brothers and sisters. Yet his father decided that Robert, the eldest, should have an education. Just a bit, mind you. A tutor was hired, and Robert, in between farm chores, learned how to read and write. A world opened up to him through language. Writing came naturally to him. He started writing poems and songs almost immediately. Burns was wild, he loved pleasure, fun, women. As is often the case with people like this, he suffered from depression. He had many illegitimate children. <\/p>\n

When I was in Scotland in 2024, I was tied to the Frankenstein shoot, which meant I saw Dundee, Arbroath, Edinburgh, and the landscape out the car window in between Arbroath and Edinburgh as Alex drove me back and forth. And that was it. I had a day off here, an afternoon off there, and I ventured out to explore. One afternoon in Edinburgh, I set out to find a bookstore my friend Ted told me about: Elvis Shakespeare. I found it!<\/a>. I bought a couple of things: an Elvis 45, a Scottish edition of Frankenstein<\/i> and – because it only seemed right – the complete work of Robert Burns. <\/p>\n

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It’s an odd thing: Burns was a farmer’s kid with just a little bit of book larnin’. Where <\/i>did his writing bug come from?<\/p>\n

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When his poems (and songs) started being published, he became very famous in Scotland. Almost immediately. He wrote in the voice of his countrymen\/women, he wrote in their dialects, he wrote about THEM. It was a local<\/em> voice. This was political. Scotland was colonized. As happened in Ireland, Scotland’s language was damaged in the process. In Ireland it was eradicated. Reclaiming the native language was a political act, a declaration that your country may be colonized but your language is free. <\/p>\n

“These English songs gravel me to death. I have not the command of the language that I have of my native tongue. In fact, I think that my ideas are more barren in English than in Scotch.” — Robert Burns<\/big><\/p>\n

And so what that does is gives us a sense of what people sounded like. This was just “not done”. Here’s a good one. One of his most famous lines is embedded in this poem.<\/p>\n

To a Mouse<\/big><\/p>\n

Wee, sleekit, cowran, tim’rous beastie,
\nO, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
\nThou need na start awa sae hasty,
\nWi’ bickering brattle!
\nI wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,
\nWi’ murd’ring pattle!<\/p>\n

I’m truly sorry Man’s dominion
\nHas broken Nature’s social union,
\nAn’ justifies that ill opinion,
\nWhich makes thee startle,
\nAt me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
\nAn’ fellow-mortal!<\/p>\n

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
\nWhat then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
\nA daimen-icker in a thrave ‘S a sma’ request:
\nI’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave,
\nAn’ never miss’t!<\/p>\n

Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
\nIt’s silly wa’s the win’s are strewin!
\nAn’ naething, now, to big a new ane,
\nO’ foggage green!
\nAn’ bleak December’s winds ensuin,
\nBaith snell an’ keen!<\/p>\n

Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ wast,
\nAn’ weary Winter comin fast,
\nAn’ cozie here, beneath the blast,
\nThou thought to dwell,
\nTill crash! the cruel coulter past
\nOut thro’ thy cell.<\/p>\n

That wee-bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble,
\nHas cost thee monie a weary nibble!
\nNow thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble,
\nBut house or hald.
\nTo thole the Winter’s sleety dribble,
\nAn’ cranreuch cauld!<\/p>\n

But Mousie, thou are no thy-lane,
\nIn proving foresight may be vain:
\nThe best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men,
\nGang aft agley,
\nAn’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
\nFor promis’d joy!<\/p>\n

Still, thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me!
\nThe present only toucheth thee:
\nBut Och! I backward cast my e’e,
\nOn prospects drear!
\nAn’ forward, tho’ I canna see,
\nI guess an’ fear!<\/p>\n

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\nAs it stands, there are over 400 Robert Burns known songs in existence. The fame he achieved in his lifetime, however, was nothing compared to his posthumous fame.<\/p>\n

Some of his verses are so engrained in our culture we can’t even imagine they were even written<\/i> at all. They seem to have just descended upon us, whole, from Mount Olympus. If you’re drunk on New Year’s Eve, gripping a bottle of champagne, and singing “Auld Lang Syne” at the top of your lungs, annoying people on the subway, you are quoting Robert Burns.<\/p>\n

Aside from “Auld Lang Syne”, Burns is perhaps most known for a simple little love lyric, “My Luve is Like a Red Red Rose”. The poem exists in a cloud of canon-respectabiity, which is fine, but take a second to read it out loud. Burns should be read out loud. The emotion is on the page<\/i>.<\/p>\n

My Luve is Like a Red, Red Rose<\/u><\/big>
\nO, my luve is like a red, red rose,
\nThat’s newly sprung in June.
\nO, my luve is like a melodie,
\nThat’s sweetly play’d in tune.<\/p>\n

As fair art thou, my bonie lass,
\nSo deep in luve am I,
\nAnd I will luve thee still, my dear,
\nTill a’ the seas gang dry.<\/p>\n

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
\nAnd the rocks melt wi the sun!
\nAnd I will luve thee still, my dear,
\nWhile the sands o life shall run.<\/p>\n

And fare thee weel, my only luve!
\nAnd fare thee weel, a while!
\nAnd I will come again, my luve,
\nTho it were ten thousand mile!<\/p>\n

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