A Night Out with Burns
Page 13
An’ ay was guid to me an’ mine;
An’ now my dying charge I gie him,
My helpless lambs, I trust them wi’ him.
‘O, bid him save their harmless lives,
Frae dogs an’ tods, an’ butchers’ knives!
But gie them guid cow-milk their fill,
Till they be fit to fend themsel;
An’ tent them duely, e’en an’ morn,
Wi’ taets o’ hay an’ ripps o’ corn.
‘An’ may they never learn the gaets,
Of ither vile, wanrestfu’ Pets!
To slink thro’ slaps, an’ reave an’ steal,
At stacks o’ pease, or stocks o’ kail.
So may they, like their great forbears,
For monie a year come thro’ the sheers:
So wives will gie them bits o’ bread,
An’ bairns greet for them when they’re dead.
‘My poor toop-lamb, my son an’ heir,
O, bid him breed him up wi’ care!
An’ if he live to be a beast,
To pit some havins in his breast!
An’ warn him, what I winna name,
To stay content wi’ yowes at hame;
An’ no to rin an’ wear his cloots,
Like ither menseless, graceless brutes.
‘An’ neist my yowie, silly thing,
Gude keep thee frae a tether string!
O, may thou ne’er forgather up,
Wi’ onie blastet, moorlan toop;
But ay keep mind to moop an’ mell,
Wi’ sheep o’ credit like thysel!
‘And now, my bairns, wi’ my last breath,
I lea’e my blessin wi’ you baith:
An’ when ye think upo’ your Mither,
Mind to be kind to ane anither.
‘Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail,
To tell my Master a’ my tale;
An’ bid him burn this cursed tether,
An’ for thy pains thou’se get my blather.’
This said, poor Mailie turn’d her head,
An’ clos’d her een amang the dead!
There are also a growing number of larger-scale private enterprises in the Chinese countryside, generating for their owners profits that dwarf by many magnitudes the ‘fortunes’ for which ‘evil landlords’ of the old society were submitted to revolutionary justice. Substantial fortunes make it possible, among other things, for some individuals to flaunt population controls by paying the fines for having larger families with impunity; this is among the more serious of the contradictions that rural industry has brought in its wake. Increased polarisation of classes in the rural areas is a serious problem in its own right.
Anthropology and the Global Factory: Studies of the New Industrialization in the Late Twentieth Century, edited by Frances Abrahamer Rothstein and Michael L. Blim
The Twa Dogs—A Tale
’Twas in that place o’ Scotland’s isle,
That bears the name o’ auld king Coil,
Upon a bonie day in June,
When wearing thro’ the afternoon,
Twa Dogs, that were na thrang at hame,
Forgather’d ance upon a time.
The first I’ll name, they ca’d him Ceasar,
Was keepet for His Honor’s pleasure;
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,
Show’d he was nane o’ Scotland’s dogs;
But whalpet some place far abroad,
Whare sailors gang to fish for Cod.
His locked, letter’d, braw brass-collar,
Show’d him the gentleman an’ scholar;
But tho’ he was o’ high degree,
The fient a pride na pride had he,
But wad hae spent an hour caressan,
Ev’n wi’ a’ Tinkler-gipsey’s messan:
At Kirk or Market, Mill or Smiddie,
Nae tawtied tyke, tho’ e’er sae duddie,
But he wad stan’t, as glad to see him,
An’ stroan’t on stanes an’ hillocks wi’ him.
The tither was a ploughman’s collie,
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie,
Wha for his friend an’ comrade had him,
And in his freaks had Luath ca’d him;
After some dog in Highlan Sang,
Was made lang syne, lord knows how lang.
He was a gash an’ faithfu’ tyke,
As ever lap a sheugh, or dyke!
His honest sonsie, baws’nt face,
Ay gat him friends in ilka place;
His breast was white, his towzie back,
Weel clad wi’ coat o’ glossy black;
His gawsie tail, wi’ upward curl,
Hung owre his hurdies wi’ a swirl.
Nae doubt but they were fain o’ ither,
An’ unco pack an’ thick the gither;
Wi’ social nose whyles snuff’d an’ snowcket;
Whyles mice an’ modewurks they howcket;
Whyles scour’d awa in lang excursion,
An’ worry’d ither in diversion;
Untill wi’ daffin weary grown,
Upon a knowe they sat them down,
An’ there began a lang digression
About the lords o’ the creation.
CEASAR
I’ve aften wonder’d, honest Luath,
What sort o’ life poor dogs like you have;
An’ when the gentry’s life I saw,
What way poor bodies liv’d ava.
Our Laird gets in his racked rents,
His coals, his kane, an’ a’ his stents;
He rises when he likes himsel;
His flunkies answer at the bell;
He ca’s his coach; he ca’s his horse;
He draws a bonie, silken purse
As lang’s my tail, whare thro’ the steeks,
The yellow, letter’d Geordie keeks.
Frae morn to een, it’s nought but toiling,
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling:
An’ tho’ the gentry first are steghan,
Yet ev’n the ha’ folk fill their peghan
Wi’ sauce, ragouts, an’ sic like trashtrie,
That’s little short o’ downright wastrie.
Our Whipper-in, wee, blastiet wonner,
Poor, worthless elf, it eats a dinner,
Better than ony Tenant-man
His Honor has in a’ the lan’:
An’ what poor Cot-folk pit their painch in,
I own it’s past my comprehension.—
LUATH
Trowth, Ceasar, whyles they’re fash’d eneugh;
A Cotter howckan in a sheugh,
Wi’ dirty stanes biggan an dyke,
Bairan a quarry, an’ sic like,
Himsel, a wife, he thus sustains,
A smytrie o’ wee, duddie weans,
An’ nought but his han’-daurk, to keep
Them right an’ tight in thack an’ raep.
An’ when they meet wi’ sair disasters,
Like loss o’ health, or want o’ masters,
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer,
An’ they maun starve o’ cauld an’ hunger:
But how it comes, I never kent yet,
They’re maistly wonderfu’ contented;
An’ buirdly chiels, an’ clever hizzies,
Are bred in sic a way as this is.
CEASAR
But then, to see how ye’re negleket,
How huff’d, an’ cuff’d, an’ disrespeket!
Lord man, our gentry care as little
For delvers, ditchers, an’ sic cattle;
They gang as saucy by poor folk,
As I wad by a stinkan brock.
I’ve notic’d, on our Laird’s court-day,
An’ mony a time my heart’s been wae,
Poor tenant-bodies, scant o’ cash,
How they maun thole a factor’s snash;
He’ll stamp an’ threaten, curse an’ swear,
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��ll apprehend them, poind their gear,
While they maun stand, wi’ aspect humble,
An’ hear it a’, an’ fear an’ tremble!
I see how folk live that hae riches,
But surely poor-folk maun be wretches!
LUATH
They’re no sae wretched’s ane wad think;
Tho’ constantly on poortith’s brink,
They’re sae accustom’d wi’ the sight,
The view o’t gies them little fright.
Then chance an’ fortune are sae guided,
They’re ay in less or mair provided;
An’ tho’ fatigu’d wi’ close employment,
A blink o’ rest’s a sweet enjoyment.
The dearest comfort o’ their lives,
Their grushie weans, an’ faithfu’ wives;
The prattling things are just their pride,
That sweetens a’ their fire-side.
An’ whyles, twalpennie-worth o’ nappy
Can mak the bodies unco happy;
They lay aside their private cares,
To mind the Kirk an’ State affairs;
They’ll talk o’ patronage an’ priests,
Wi’ kindling fury i’ their breasts,
Or tell what new taxation’s comin,
An’ ferlie at the folk in LON’ON.
As bleak-fac’d Hallowmass returns,
They get the jovial, rantan Kirns,
When rural life, of ev’ry station,
Unite in common recreation;
Love blinks, Wit slaps, an’ social Mirth
Forgets there’s care upo’ the earth.
That merry day the year begins,
They bar the door on frosty win’s;
The nappy reeks wi’ mantling ream,
An’ sheds a heart-inspiring steam;
The luntan pipe, an’ sneeshin mill,
Are handed round wi’ right guid will;
The cantie, auld folks, crackan crouse,
The young anes rantan thro’ the house—
My heart has been sae fain to see them,
That I for joy hae barket wi’ them.
Still it’s owre true that ye hae said,
Sic game is now owre aften play’d;
There’s monie a creditable stock
O’ decent, honest, fawsont folk,
Are riven out baith root an’ branch,
Some rascal’s pridefu’ greed to quench,
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster
In favor wi’ some gentle Master,
Wha, aiblins, thrang a parliamentin,
For Britain’s guid his saul indentin—
CEASAR
Haith lad, ye little ken about it;
For Britain’s guid! guid faith! I doubt it.
Say rather, gaun as PREMIERS lead him,
An’ saying aye or no’s they bid him:
At Operas an’ Plays parading,
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading:
Or maybe, in a frolic daft,
To HAGUE or CALAIS takes a waft,
To make a tour an’ take a whirl,
To learn bon ton an’ see the worl’.
There, at VIENNA or VERSAILLES,
He rives his father’s auld entails;
Or by MADRID he takes the rout,
To thrum guittarres an’ fecht wi’ nowt;
Or down Italian Vista startles,
Whore-hunting amang groves o’ myrtles:
Then bowses drumlie German-water,
To make himsel look fair an’ fatter,
An’ clear the consequential sorrows,
Love-gifts of Carnival Signioras.
For Britain’s guid! for her destruction!
Wi’ dissipation, feud an’ faction!
LUATH
Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate,
They waste sae mony a braw estate!
Are we sae foughten an’ harass’d
For gear to gang that gate at last!
O would they stay aback frae courts,
An’ please themsels wi’ countra sports,
It wad for ev’ry ane be better,
The Laird, the Tenant, an’ the Cotter!
For thae frank, rantan, ramblan billies,
Fient haet o’ them’s illhearted fellows;
Except for breakin o’ their timmer,
Or speakin lightly o’ their Limmer;
Or shootin of a hare or moorcock,
The ne’er-a-bit they’re ill to poor folk.
But will ye tell me, Master Ceasar,
Sure great folk’s life’s a life o’ pleasure?
Nae cauld nor hunger e’er can steer them,
The vera thought o’t need na fear them.
CEASAR
Lord man, were ye but whyles where I am,
The gentles ye wad ne’er envy them!
It’s true, they needna starve or sweat,
Thro’ Winter’s cauld, or Summer’s heat;
They’ve nae sair-wark to craze their banes,
An’ fill auld-age wi’ grips an’ granes:
But human-bodies are sic fools,
For a’ their Colledges an’ Schools,
That when nae real ills perplex them,
They mak enow themsels to vex them;
An’ ay the less they hae to sturt them,
In like proportion, less will hurt them.
A country fellow at the pleugh,
His acre’s till’d, he’s right eneugh;
A country girl at her wheel,
Her dizzen’s done, she’s unco weel;
But Gentlemen, an’ Ladies warst,
Wi’ ev’n down want o’ wark they’re curst.
They loiter, lounging, lank an’ lazy;
Tho’ deil-haet ails them, yet uneasy;
Their days, insipid, dull an’ tasteless,
Their nights, unquiet, lang an’ restless.
An’ ev’n their sports, their balls an’ races,
Their galloping thro’ public places,
There’s sic parade, sic pomp an’ art,
The joy can scarcely reach the heart.
The Men cast out in party-matches,
Then sowther a’ in deep debauches.
Ae night, they’re mad wi’ drink an’ whoring,
Niest day their life is past enduring.
The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,
As great an’ gracious a’ as sisters;
But hear their absent thoughts o’ ither,
They’re a’ run-deils an’ jads the gither
Whyles, owre the wee bit cup an’ platie,
They sip the scandal-potion pretty;
Or lee-lang nights, wi’ crabbet leuks,
Pore owre the devil’s pictur’d beuks;