My Heart's in the Highlands (R Burns)
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer;
Chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go.
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birth-place of Valour, the country of Worth ;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.
Farewell to the mountains, high-cover'd with snow,
Farewell to the straths and green vallies below;
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods,
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer;
Chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go.
Let me say up front that I have read Burns since I was a reluctant schoolboy and I tried hard to appreciate it, you had to in St. Mirin's Academy or you got the "bruises on you" I like one or two Burns things to this day but it is fair to say that if he was relying on sales to me to survive he would starve. The bottom line was of course that we were being forced to learn poetry in a foreign language, it might as well have been Spanish or German and no doubt better for our futures if it had been. The fact that he (Burns) was a famous mason did not sit well with the parents of many boys and indeed many teachers who shared our backgrounds, this was Scotland in the late 50's earl 60's need I say more "A bloody wee knuckle cruncher, check you've still got yer watch when ye shake haunds wae him, he couldnae write F**k on a dusty blind" was the considered verdict of our Da. the old man had a way with words himself now that I think of it. Burns, the Monarchy, Churchill, The Tories, The British Army (whom he served) the B******s in the establishment and various other people and things which roused his ancient Irish temper were all grist for his mill when that temper got going, we boys used to hide behind the couch clinging to each other tightly trying not to laugh when he went off on one, risky but side-splitting.
The above lines of poetry are what we call today doggerel, described in the dictionary as "badly written verse" the dictionary description is in fact too mild for this, it is absolute crap, 'the cat sat on the mat, and then it sat on a hat' is obviously superior and has much more gravitas. The reason of course that it escapes accurate examination is that it is by Burns, Scotland's National Poet and best known cottage industry, mugs, tea towels, calendars etc. and ridiculously expensive trinkets are sold to tourists as well as many Scots. visiting the old country who feign an interest in Burns to burnish their Scottish credentials, business is business right?
We are once again in the middle of the 2 week Burnsarama where he becomes inescapable and con artists squeeze every last bawbee out of it that they can. At the last count I have 4 selected editions of some of Burn's poetry handed out by newspapers annually to try to sell copy. Is anyone asking as I do why Burns remains a reserve league poet despite these annual attempts to sell him as a major artist? The answer is a harsh one to take, he is simply not good enough, he is not Shelley, Shakespeare or, Milton, nor is he Yeats, Wilde or Wordsworth and these are only from the British Isles.
I think that Scotland should re-examine it's literary past in an honest way and look at the other poets/writers Etc. none of whom get a fair deal because of the "Burns Industry" a closer examination of the man would let people know the truth about him. His plagiarism, his unctuous grovelling to the upper classes in Edinburgh, his ambition to be a slave owner, his work for the Crown as an excise man acting against his own people, his loathing for hard work, a man of straw in fact but not unusual for his time. He did in fact write some memorable lines but so would anyone who wrote as much as he did. The following true story which I have told before illustrates the damage that Burn's clubs and societies have done to Scottish literature. While feeding the swans and ducks at the Cart Walk a bus emblazoned with the legend "WALLACE TOURS" parked close to me and some Americans got off some chatted to me as I fed the birds and I asked where they were going and was told "Edinboro Castle, Bobby Burn's Cottage and to kiss the Blarney Stone, we just love Scatland" The bus company did not enlighten them, perhaps they were selling Blarney Stone Tea Towels.
Alas it's too late now and we are stuck with Burns whose glow will continue to rise and fall but mainly remain at a peep as far as international acclaim is concerned while true greats will see their flame blaze higher still and higher. I will leave the last word on Burns with MacDiarmid a far more profound and difficult poet but also far more rewarding "mair nonsense has been uttered in his name than in ony's barrin' liberty and Christ" I will settle down with a copy of the great poets on Burn's night where Burns in fact has only two entries "Tam o Shanter" and "A Man's a Man" if you must know.
