A wee bit o' Burns

[Penny Tray]

Could Tam O'Shanter be described as Gothic Novel ?

By definition (an English genre of fiction popular in the 18th to early 19th centuries, characterized by an atmosphere of mystery and horror and having a pseudo-medieval setting) almost, but I doubt that there will be many other examples in existence with such perfect rhyme, building throughout to such an exciting crescendo, closing with such a perceptive warning (Whene’er to drink you are inclin’d, Or cutty sarks rin in your mind, Think! Ye might may by the joys o’er dear) and providing so many other lines that the average man in street could quote you off the top of his head without as much as a blink.

[brian f]

Curiosity- Has got me again .. Right or wrong- I take it the pupils of Ardrossan Academy had lessons in Burns and Shakespeare.

[Penny Tray]

Curiosity- Has got me again .. Right or wrong- I take it the pupils of Ardrossan Academy had lessons in Burns and Shakespeare.

Can't help you here Brian, I didn't go to the Academy. However, I have no recollection of Robert Burns being mentioned at Winton Primary or Eglinton Junior Secondary schools between 1952 and 1962, and Shakespeare certainly wasn't.

[morag]

We got both at St. John's and St. Michael's...along with a hunner thoosand others

[bonzo]

(Whene’er to drink you are inclin’d, Or cutty sarks rin in your mind, Think! Ye might may by the joys o’er dear)

I have this verse tattooed on my back.

[Penny Tray]

God knows, I’m no’ the thing I should be,
Nor am I even the thing I could be,
But twenty times I rather would be
An atheist clean,
Than under gospel colours hid be
Just for a screen.

EPISTLE TO THE REV. JOHN McMATH

[stivis]

By definition (an English genre of fiction popular in the 18th to early 19th centuries, characterized by an atmosphere of mystery and horror and having a pseudo-medieval setting) almost, but I doubt that there will be many other examples in existence with such perfect rhyme, building throughout to such an exciting crescendo, closing with such a perceptive warning (Whene’er to drink you are inclin’d, Or cutty sarks rin in your mind, Think! Ye might may by the joys o’er dear) and providing so many other lines that the average man in street could quote you off the top of his head without as much as a blink.

The place where I heard first remarked was a site that had an english translation of the poem

the rhyme is still there

Tam o' Shanter

When the peddler people leave the streets,And thirsty neighbours, neighbours meet; As market days are wearing late,And folk begin to take the road home, While we sit boozing strong ale,And getting drunk and very happy,We don’t think of the long Scots miles, The marshes, waters, steps and stiles, That lie between us and our home,Where sits our sulky, sullen dame (wife),Gathering her brows like a gathering storm, Nursing her wrath, to keep it warm.This truth finds honest Tam o' Shanter,As he from Ayr one night did canter;Old Ayr, which never a town surpasses,For honest men and bonny lasses.Oh Tam, had you but been so wise,As to have taken your own wife Kate’s advice!She told you well you were a waster,A rambling, blustering, drunken boaster,That from November until October,Each market day you were not sober;During each milling period with the miller,You sat as long as you had money,For every horse he put a shoe on,The blacksmith and you got roaring drunk on;That at the Lords House, even on Sunday,You drank with Kirkton Jean till Monday.She prophesied, that, late or soon,You would be found deep drowned in Doon,Or caught by warlocks in the murk,By Alloway’s old haunted church.Ah, gentle ladies, it makes me cry,To think how many counsels sweet,How much long and wise adviceThe husband from the wife despises!But to our tale :- One market night,Tam was seated just right,Next to a fireplace, blazing finely,With creamy ales, that drank divinely;And at his elbow, Cobbler Johnny,His ancient, trusted, thirsty crony;Tom loved him like a very brother,They had been drunk for weeks together.The night drove on with songs and clatter,And every ale was tasting better;The landlady and Tam grew gracious,With secret favours, sweet and precious;The cobbler told his queerest stories;The landlord’s laugh was ready chorus:Outside, the storm might roar and rustle,Tam did not mind the storm a whistle.Care, mad to see a man so happy,Even drowned himself in ale.As bees fly home with loads of treasure,The minutes winged their way with pleasure:Kings may be blessed, but Tam was glorious,Over all the ills of life victorious.But pleasures are like poppies spread:You seize the flower, its bloom is shed;Or like the snow fall on the river,A moment white - then melts forever,Or like the Aurora Borealis rays,That move before you can point to where they're placed;Or like the rainbow’s lovely form,Vanishing amid the storm.No man can tether time or tide,The hour approaches Tom must ride:That hour, of night’s black arch - the key-stone,That dreary hour he mounts his beast inAnd such a night he takes to the road inAs never a poor sinner had been out in.The wind blew as if it had blown its last;The rattling showers rose on the blast;The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed,Loud, deep and long the thunder bellowed:That night, a child might understand,The Devil had business on his hand.Well mounted on his grey mare, Meg.A better never lifted leg,Tom, raced on through mud and mire,Despising wind and rain and fire;Whilst holding fast his good blue bonnet,While crooning over some old Scots sonnet,Whilst glowering round with prudent care,Lest ghosts catch him unaware:Alloway’s Church was drawing near,Where ghosts and owls nightly cry.By this time he was across the ford,Where in the snow the pedlar got smothered;And past the birch trees and the huge stone,Where drunken Charlie broke his neck bone;And through the thorns, and past the monument,Where hunters found the murdered child;And near the thorn, above the well,Where Mungo’s mother hung herself.Before him the river Doon pours all his floods;The doubling storm roars throught the woods;The lightnings flashes from pole to pole;Nearer and more near the thunder rolls;When, glimmering through the groaning trees,Alloway’s Church seemed in a blaze,Through every gap , light beams were glancing,And loud resounded mirth and dancing.Inspiring, bold John Barleycorn! (whisky)What dangers you can make us scorn!With ale, we fear no evil;With whisky, we’ll face the Devil!The ales so swam in Tam’s head,Fair play, he didn’t care a farthing for devils.But Maggie stood, right sore astonished,Till, by the heel and hand admonished,She ventured forward on the light;And, vow! Tom saw an incredible sight!Warlocks and witches in a dance:No cotillion, brand new from France,But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,Put life and mettle in their heels.In a window alcove in the east,There sat Old Nick, in shape of beast;A shaggy dog, black, grim, and large,To give them music was his charge:He screwed the pipes and made them squeal,Till roof and rafters all did ring.Coffins stood round, like open presses,That showed the dead in their last dresses;And, by some devilish magic sleight,Each in its cold hand held a light:By which heroic Tom was ableTo note upon the holy table,A murderer’s bones, in gibbet-irons;Two span-long, small, unchristened babies;A thief just cut from his hanging rope -With his last gasp his mouth did gape;Five tomahawks with blood red-rusted;Five scimitars with murder crusted;A garter with which a baby had strangled;A knife a father’s throat had mangled -Whom his own son of life bereft -The grey-hairs yet stack to the shaft;With more o' horrible and awful,Which even to name would be unlawful.Three Lawyers’ tongues, turned inside out,Sown with lies like a beggar’s cloth -Three Priests’ hearts, rotten, black as muckLay stinking, vile, in every nook.As Thomas glowered, amazed, and curious,The mirth and fun grew fast and furious;The piper loud and louder blew,The dancers quick and quicker flew,They reeled, they set, they crossed, they linked,Till every witch sweated and smelled,And cast her ragged clothes to the floor,And danced deftly at it in her underskirts!Now Tam, O Tam! had these been queens,All plump and strapping in their teens!Their underskirts, instead of greasy flannel,Been snow-white seventeen hundred linen! -The trousers of mine, my only pair,That once were plush, of good blue hair,I would have given them off my buttocksFor one blink of those pretty girls !But withered hags, old and droll,Ugly enough to suckle a foal,Leaping and flinging on a stick,Its a wonder it didn’t turn your stomach!But Tam knew what was what well enough:There was one winsome, jolly wench,That night enlisted in the core,Long after known on Carrick shore(For many a beast to dead she shot,And perished many a bonnie boat,And shook both much corn and barley,And kept the country-side in fear.)Her short underskirt, o’ Paisley cloth,That while a young lass she had worn,In longitude though very limited,It was her best, and she was proud. . .Ah! little knew your reverend grandmother,That skirt she bought for her little grandaughter,With two Scots pounds (it was all her riches),Would ever graced a dance of witches!But here my tale must stoop and bow,Such words are far beyond her power;To sing how Nannie leaped and kicked(A supple youth she was, and strong);And how Tom stood like one bewitched,And thought his very eyes enriched;Even Satan glowered, and fidgeted full of lust,And jerked and blew with might and main;Till first one caper, then another,Tom lost his reason all together,And roars out: ‘ Well done, short skirt! ’And in an instant all was dark;And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,When out the hellish legion sallied.As bees buzz out with angry wrath,When plundering herds assail their hive;As a wild hare’s mortal foes,When, pop! she starts running before their nose;As eager runs the market-crowd,When ‘ Catch the thief! ’ resounds aloud:So Maggie runs, the witches follow,With many an unearthly scream and holler.Ah, Tom! Ah, Tom! You will get what's coming!In hell they will roast you like a herring!In vain your Kate awaits your coming !Kate soon will be a woeful woman!Now, do your speedy utmost, Meg,And beat them to the key-stone of the bridge;There, you may toss your tale at them,A running stream they dare not cross!But before the key-stone she could make,She had to shake a tail at the fiend;For Nannie, far before the rest,Hard upon noble Maggie pressed,And flew at Tam with furious aim;But little was she Maggie’s mettle!One spring brought off her master whole,But left behind her own grey tail:The witch caught her by the rump,And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.Now, who this tale of truth shall read,Each man, and mother’s son, take heed:Whenever to drink you are inclined,Or short skirts run in your mind,Think! you may buy joys over dear:Remember Tam o’ Shanter’s mare.

[Meg]

Curiosity- Has got me again .. Right or wrong- I take it the pupils of Ardrossan Academy had lessons in Burns and Shakespeare.

Can't help you here Brian, I didn't go to the Academy. However, I have no recollection of Robert Burns being mentioned at Winton Primary or Eglinton Junior Secondary schools between 1952 and 1962, and Shakespeare certainly wasn't.

At Ardrossan Academy, our English teacher Mr Anderson was a Burns enthusiast, so we did get The Cotters Saturday Night, and To a Mouse - Shakespeare was taught in every year right up to a Higher.

Meg

[down south]

Our Primary 5 and 6 teacher at the Academy, Mrs Blythe, she of the Scottish history lessons, also gave us a thorough grounding in Burns.

Susan

[5siamese7]

On the same theme, at Stevenston higher grade Burns was spoken about and taught at length This isn't surprising considering his connection to the toon. I remember Jessie Duncan (known as doosy Duncan for some reason) reciting Tam o' Shanter and we drew sketches of folk in open coffins and I don't think it did us any harm.

[5siamese7]

This is certainly a wee bit of Burns. What is your favourite quote? how about "ye are no Mary Morrison"

[Penny Tray]

No less a figure than Hugh MacDiarmid thought that was the most powerful line written by Burns!

Personally, I think the whole verse falls into the 'powerful' category:-

Yestreen, when to the trembling string
The dance gaed thro the lighted ha',
To thee my fancy took its wing,
I sat, but neither heard or saw:
Tho this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sigh'd, and said amang them a' -
'Ye are na Mary Morison.

*MARY MORISON