It's the 25th of January...

[tree_and_leaf]

Which means that it is The Conversion of S. Paul Burns' NIght, in honour of Scotland's most famous poet.* My parents will be at a Burns Supper tonight, where my father is giving the Immortal Memory (quite an honour, given that he's English); normally I'd organise a little Burns Night party myself, but I lack the space and the haggis this year. However, I will be going out to drink whisky later on with some friends - and will probably be expected to provide an introductory lecture on Burns, as well as choosing everyone's whisky for them (an onerous task).

With that in mind, a Burns poem under the cut: 'one of the most characteristic effusions of his muse': chippy, funny, egalitarian, and written for the masons (OK: it lacks the skirt-chasing, but you can't have everything...) Also, as a bonus, one of Hugh MacDiarmid's better efforts.



Is there for honest poverty
That hings his head, an' a' that?
The coward slave, we pass him by --
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Our toils obscure, an' a' that,
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The man's the gowd for a' that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, an' a' that?
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine --
A man's a man for a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their tinsel show, an' a' that,
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie ca'd 'a lord,'
Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that?
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a cuif for a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
His ribband, star, an' a' that,
The man o' independent mind,
He looks an' laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an' a' that!
But an honest man's aboon his might --
Guid faith, he mauna fa' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their dignities, an' a' that,
The pith o' sense an' pride o' worth
Are higher rank than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may
(As come it will for a' that)
That Sense and Worth o'er a' the earth
Shall bear the gree an' a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
It's comin yet for a' that,
That man to man the world o'er
Shall brithers be for a' that.

Robert Burns. Amusingly, 'Pride o' worth' was the motto of the old Scottish Exam Board, so the phrase gives me flashbacks to opening my Highers results....


Scotland Small?

Scotland small? Our multiform, our infinite Scotland small?
Only as a patch of hillside may be a cliche corner
To a fool who cries "Nothing but heather!" Where in September another
Sitting there and resting and gazing around
Sees not only heather but blaeberries
With bright green leaves and leaves already turned scarlet,
Hiding ripe blue berries; and amongst the sage-green leaves
Of the bog-myrtle the golden flowers of the tormentil shining;
And on the small bare places, where the little Blackface sheep
Found grazing, milkworts blue as summer skies;
And down in neglected peat-hags, not worked
In living memory, sphagnum moss in pastel shades
Of yellow, green and pink; sundew and butterwort
And nodding harebells vying in their colour
With the blue butterflies that poise themselves delicately upon them,
And stunted rowans with harsh dry leaves of glorious colour
"Nothing but heather!" -- How marvellously descriptive! And incomplete!

-- Hugh MacDiarmid

* I'm far from convinced he's our best, but he did do poetry in Scots a great deal of service, so he deserves his party.