As it is Burns Night, I have been passing some quiet time reading my Burns’s Complete Poetical Works, a nice Riverside Press volume from 1897 (Some day the world will realize that late-nineteenth century Riverside Press editions are excellent and far underpriced, and the prices will be increased accordingly.  Right now they are fantastic deals; keep your eyes open for them.)

I want to share three passages.  The first consists of stanzas VII and VIII from Man Was Made To Mourn, in which the narrator of the poem is listening to the story of an octogenarian walking along the bank of a river:

"Many and sharp the num'rous ills
  Inwoven with our frame !
More pointed still we make ourselves
  Regret, remorse, and shame!
And Man, whose heav'n-erected face
  The smiles of love adorn,--
Man's inhumanity to man
  Makes countless thousands mourn !

"See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight,
  So abject, mean, and vile,
Who begs a brother of the earth
  To give him leave to toil;
And see his lordly fellow-worm
  The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife
  And helpless offspring mourn.

Burns, a womaniser and drunkard, was also a very tender-hearted soul who was deeply sympathetic with animals and his fellow man.  I excerpt stanzas II and III from To A Mouse, subtitled on turning her up in her nest with the plough, November, 1785 (the poem The Wounded Hare explores a similar theme.)  I place my translation next to stanza III:

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion
                 Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion
                 An' fellow mortal !

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;          I doubt not, sometimes you may thieve;
What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live          What then?  Poor beastie, you must live
A daimen icker in a thrave                        An occasional ear of corn from amongst two dozen
                 'S a sma' request;                                Is a small request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,                  I'll get a blessing with the remainder,
                 An' never miss't !                                And never miss it!

For the final selection I’ll lighten the tone with a bit of hilarious derision.  Burns allegedly inscribed this verse in a beautifully bound but badly worm-eaten volume of Shakespeare in a nobleman’s library.  The Book-Worms:

Through and through th' ispired leaves,
  Ye maggots, make your windings;
But O, respect his lordship's taste,
  And spare the golden bindings !

Fri, 25 Jan 2002 22:56:34 +0000
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