Ballads by Robert Burns

 

Source of book: I own this

 

It has been quite a few years since I last read any Robert Burns. I read an arbitrary selection of his poems, since my book doesn’t divide things very well. For more about Burns’ colorful life, see that previous post. This time, I did read an entire section - “Ballads.” 

This collection is fascinating because, although all of the poems are in one ballad form or another - with the intended tune listed - many of them are on topics that one does not usually think of being sung as ballads. For example, there are several poems about elections, which, I guess, in an age of democracy, would be the new “battles for the crown.” 

 

One of those poems, “The Dean of Faculty,” is a pretty epic takedown of the guy who defeated Burns’ friend for the position. Perhaps that is a good one to start with. To the tune of “The Dragon of Wantley,” in case you wondered. 

 

The Dean of Faculty

 

Dire was the hate at old Harlaw,

That Scot to Scot did carry;

And dire the discord Langside saw

For beauteous, hapless Mary:

But Scot to Scot ne'er met so hot,

Or were more in fury seen, Sir,

Than 'twixt Hal and Bob for the famous job,

Who should be the Faculty's Dean, Sir.

 

This Hal for genius, wit and lore,

Among the first was number'd;

But pious Bob, 'mid learning's store,

Commandment the tenth remember'd:

Yet simple Bob the victory got,

And wan his heart's desire,

Which shews that heaven can boil the pot,

Tho' the devil piss in the fire.

 

Squire Hal, besides, had in this case

Pretensions rather brassy;

For talents, to deserve a place,

Are qualifications saucy.

So their worships of the Faculty,

Quite sick of merit's rudeness,

Chose one who should owe it all, d'ye see,

To their gratis grace and goodness.

 

As once on Pisgah purg'd was the sight

Of a son of Circumcision,

So may be, on this Pisgah height,

Bob's purblind mental vision-

Nay, Bobby's mouth may be opened yet,

Till for eloquence you hail him,

And swear that he has the angel met

That met the ass of Balaam.

 

In your heretic sins may you live and die,

Ye heretic Eight-and-Tairty!

But accept, ye sublime Majority,

My congratulations hearty.

With your honours, as with a certain king,

In your servants this is striking,

The more incapacity they bring,

The more they're to your liking. 

 

There are some delicious lines in there:

 

“Which shews that heaven can boil the pot,

Tho' the devil piss in the fire.”

 

“Nay, Bobby's mouth may be opened yet,

Till for eloquence you hail him,

And swear that he has the angel met

That met the ass of Balaam.”

 

“With your honours, as with a certain king,

In your servants this is striking,

The more incapacity they bring,

The more they're to your liking.”

 

Poems like this are also proof that our modern ignorant puritans, who claim that “the old stuff didn’t have the smut” have never actually read the old stuff. Also, the old ballad is literally about defeating a dragon by lighting his farts on fire. 

 

There is another line in “Ballad Second - Election Day” that illustrates this as well, complaining about rigged elections. 

 

And there will be Douglasses doughty,

New christening towns far and near;

Abjuring their democrat doings,

By kissin’ the arse o’ a peer.

 

In “Election Ballad,” Burns drops the names of a number of British politicians of the time. If you know the names, the references in the rest of the poem are pretty funny. William Pitt, Edmund Burke, Lord Melville, Fox, and Sheridan. 

 

Elections don’t sound weird enough for a ballad? Well how about a theological dispute. This next ballad was written (although reluctantly) in defense of a heterodox minister, who wrote a pamphlet containing some ideas about the trinity and the divinity of Christ which caused quite the stir. 

 

Burns himself was no fan of the Scottish Presbyterian Church, and wrote plenty of poems poking fun at everything from doctrine to hypocritical ministers. So this sort of a poem was rather in his wheelhouse. For this poem, he imagines the Church calling out its army in alarm to counter the “heretic horn.” Various preachers are enlisted, and then ridiculed. This one, apparently about a certain Mr. Peebles (not the recurring Hanna Barbara cartoon character, alas), is pretty funny. 

 

Poet Willie, Poet Willie,

Fie the Doctor a volley,

Wi' your liberty's chain and your wit;

O'er Pegasus' side

Ye ne'er laid astride,

Ye but smelt, man, the place where he sh--

 

So, elections and theology and all. But everyone knows that ballads are all about the boozing, and Burns does not disappoint there. This next one was inspired by a drinking contest - the last man still able to blow a whistle won. The contest took place at the mansion of one of Burns’ friends, hence the poem. 

 

This should not be confused with the OTHER cultural touchstones associated with heavy drinking, such as the Meistertrunk festival - where a city councilman saved the town by drinking nearly a gallon of wine in one go. 

 

The Whistle

 

I sing of a whistle, a whistle of worth,
 I sing of a whistle, the pride of the North,
 Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king,
 And long with this whistle all Scotland shall ring.

Old Loda, still rueing the arm of Fingal,
 The god of the bottle sends down from his hall--
 "This whistle's your challenge--to Scotland get o'er,
 And drink them to hell, Sir! or ne'er see me more!"

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell,
 What champions ventur'd, what champions fell;
 The son of great Loda was conqueror still,
 And blew on his whistle his requiem shrill.

Till Robert, the Lord of the Cairn and the Scaur,
 Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war,
 He drank his poor godship as deep as the sea,
 No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he.

Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain'd;
 Which now in his house has for ages remain'd;
 Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood,
 The jovial contest again have renew'd.

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw;
 Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law;
 And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins;
 And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines.

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil,
 Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil;
 Or else he would muster the heads of the clan,
 And once more, in claret, try which was the man.

"By the gods of the ancients!" Glenriddel replies,
 "Before I surrender so glorious a prize,
 I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,
 And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er."

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend,
 But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe--or his friend,
 Said, toss down the whistle, the prize of the field,
 And, knee-deep in claret, he'd die or he'd yield.

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair,
 So noted for drowning of sorrow and care;
 Bur for wine and for welcome not more known to fame
 Than the sense, wit, and taste of a sweet lovely dame.

A bard was selected to witness the fray,
 And tell future ages the feats of the day;
 A bard who detested all sadness and spleen,
 And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been.

The dinner being over, the claret they ply,
 And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy;
 In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set,
 And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet.

Gay Pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er;
 Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core,
 And vow'd that to leave them he was quite forlorn,
 Till Cynthia hinted he'd find them next morn.

Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night,
 When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight,
 Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red,
 And swore 'twas the way that their ancestor did.

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautions and sage,
 No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage;
 A high-ruling Elder to wallow in wine!
 He left the foul business to folks less divine.

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end;
 But who can with fate and quart-bumpers contend?
 Though fate said--a hero shall perish in light;
 So up rose bright Phoebus--and down fell the knight.

Next up rose our bard, like a prophet in drink;--
 "Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink;
 But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme,
 Come--one bottle more--and have at the sublime!

"Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with Bruce,
 Shall heroes and patriots ever produce:
 So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay;
 The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day!"

 

That’s classic ballad stuff right there. 

 

I’ll end with another boozy number, an ode to barley, the basis of beer AND Scotch whiskey. 

 

John Barleycorn

 

There was three kings into the east,

Three kings both great and high,

And they hae sworn a solemn oath

John Barleycorn should die.

 

They took a plough and plough'd him down,

Put clods upon his head,

And they hae sworn a solemn oath

John Barleycorn was dead.

 

But the cheerful Spring came kindly on,

And show'rs began to fall;

John Barleycorn got up again,

And sore surpris'd them all.

 

The sultry suns of Summer came,

And he grew thick and strong;

His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears,

That no one should him wrong.

 

The sober Autumn enter'd mild,

When he grew wan and pale;

His bending joints and drooping head

Show'd he began to fail.

 

His colour sicken'd more and more,

He faded into age;

And then his enemies began

To show their deadly rage.

 

They've taen a weapon, long and sharp,

And cut him by the knee;

Then tied him fast upon a cart,

Like a rogue for forgerie.

 

They laid him down upon his back,

And cudgell'd him full sore;

They hung him up before the storm,

And turned him o'er and o'er.

 

They filled up a darksome pit

With water to the brim;

They heaved in John Barleycorn,

There let him sink or swim.

 

They laid him out upon the floor,

To work him farther woe;

And still, as signs of life appear'd,

They toss'd him to and fro.

 

They wasted, o'er a scorching flame,

The marrow of his bones;

But a miller us'd him worst of all,

For he crush'd him between two stones.

 

And they hae taen his very heart's blood,

And drank it round and round;

And still the more and more they drank,

Their joy did more abound.

 

John Barleycorn was a hero bold,

Of noble enterprise;

For if you do but taste his blood,

'Twill make your courage rise.

 

'Twill make a man forget his woe;

'Twill heighten all his joy;

'Twill make the widow's heart to sing,

Tho' the tear were in her eye.

 

Then let us toast John Barleycorn,

Each man a glass in hand;

And may his great posterity

Ne'er fail in old Scotland! 

 

On that note, how about some music?