For many years my Dad performed at Burns Suppers; singing, reciting poems, or delivering various parts of the usual speeches, including the āinfamousā Toast to the Lassies. Latterly he became involved with Dumbarton Burns Club holding various positions on the committee, and whenever Burns Night rolls around my thoughts immediately roll back to memories of my Dad rehearsing a song, or writing a poem or speech for the occasion.
Some years heād attend 6 or 7 different Burns Suppers, with many local clubs keen to harness his talents and as a āwell kent faceā he was never short of offers. Just as well he liked haggisā¦
Since his passing, Iāve always paused for a few moments on this day each year and let the memories wash over me. In Scotland, Burns Night is a tradition that we were taught about in primary school, learning some of the songs and poems (with Cutty Sark being the most famous given that the ship of the same name was built in my hometown of Dumbarton). Memories of Braehead Primary music room, Burns competitions, and later as an adult attending my first Burns Supper and realising just how rich a seam of culture and tradition I had grown up in.
Itās no coincidence then that I included a verse from a Burns poem in my Dadās eulogy, and I find myself reaching for this poem each year, hearing his rich voice and practiced cadence delivering the lines.
To a Mouse
by Robert Burns
On Turning her up in her Nest, with the Plough, November 1785.
Wee, sleeket, cowran, timārous beastie,
O, what a panicās in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wiā bickerin brattle!
I wad be laith to rin anā chase thee
Wiā murdāring pattle!
Iām truly sorry Manās dominion
Has broken Natureās social union,
Anā justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle,
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
Anā fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen-icker in a thrave
āS a smaā request:
Iāll get a blessin wiā the lave,
Anā never miss āt!
Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
Itās silly waās the winās are strewin!
Anā naething, now, to big a new ane,
Oā foggage green!
Anā bleak Decemberās winds ensuin,
Baith snell anā keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare anā waste,
Anā weary Winter comin fast,
Anā cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out throā thy cell.
That wee-bit heap oā leaves anā stibble
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thouās turnād out, for aā thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the Winterās sleety dribble,
Anā cranreuch cauld!
But Mousie, thou art no thy-lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes oā Mice anā Men
Gang aft agley,
Anā leaāe us nought but grief anā pain,
For promisād joy!
Still, thou art blest, comparād wiā me! The present only toucheth thee: But Och! I backward cast my eāe, On prospects drear! Anā forward thoā I canna see, I guess anā fear!