The forgotten Studio: poetry, Burns, Tan o Shanter

Sunday 26 August 2012

poetry, Burns, Tan o Shanter

Part of the Halloween series

Tam O' Shanter

A Tale by Rabbie Burns

Written in 1790

With original illustrations by

John Faed (1820- 1902)

First published in 1892 Title:

Tam O'Shanter and the Witches

Illustration to the poem of Robert Burns

Tam o'Shanter

Onw of Burns' best-loved tales is the story of a farmer from Maidens who, against his wife's good advice, gets into trouble as a result of his fondness for drink and an eye for the lasses. (no change there then . The poem is a favourite feature of Burns Suppers across the world and many Scottish pubs will give a free dram or two to anyone who can give a good recitation, start to finish, a good recital means in a good rendering of the old dialect The story, which was inspired by the local tales Burns heard as a boy, is set in Ayr and Alloway, iand reaches its scary but comic climax at the old Brig o'Doon. Burns based its characters on his own friends and characters he knew from the local taverns. In her memoir of Burns, his wife, Jean Armour, recalls watching him laughing as he walked along the banks of the River Nith, gesturing wildly and composing the poem out loud. Perhaps more than any other of his poems, Tam o'Shanter captures the spirit of poetry that was first awakened in the young Robert Burns, sitting around the fire in Burns Cottage and listening to the ghost stories of old Betty Davidson.

The late medieval Brig O’Doon was chosen by Burns for the climax of his tale, Tam O’Shanter. It spans the beautiful river Doon, the auld brig (old bridge) gives visitors a chance to walk on the very spot where Tam’s mare, Meg, made her last heroic leap for freedom - leaving her tail still in the clutches of Nan, the “Cutty Sark” witch.

"Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full is this Buke."

Gawin Douglas.

When chapman billies leave the street,

And drouthy neibors, neibors, meet;

As market days are wearing late,

And folk begin to tak the gate,

While we sit bousing at the nappy,

An' getting fou and unco happy,

We think na on the lang Scots miles,

The mosses, waters, slaps and stiles,

That lie between us and our hame,

Where sits our sulky, sullen dame,

Gathering her brows like gathering storm,

Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,

As he frae Ayr ae night did canter:

(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses,

For honest men and bonie lasses).

O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise,

As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice!

She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,

A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;

That frae November till October,

Ae market-day thou was na sober;

That ilka melder wi' the Miller,

Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;

That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on

The Smith and thee gat roarin' fou on;

That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday,

Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday,

She prophesied that late or soon,

Thou wad be found, deep drown'd in Doon,

Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk,

By Alloway's auld, haunted kirk.

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,

To think how mony counsels sweet,

How mony lengthen'd, sage advices,

The husband frae the wife despises!

But to our tale: Ae market night,

Tam had got planted unco right,

Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,

Wi reaming sAats, that drank divinely;

And at his elbow, Souter Johnie,

His ancient, trusty, drougthy crony:

Tam lo'ed him like a very brither;

They had been fou for weeks thegither.

The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter;

And aye the ale was growing better:

The Landlady and Tam grew gracious,

Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious:

The Souter tauld his queerest stories;

The Landlord's laugh was ready chorus:

The storm without might rair and rustle,

Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.

Care, mad to see a man sae happy,

E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy.

As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,

The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure:

Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,

O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!

But pleasures are like poppies spread,

You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed;

Or like the snow falls in the river,

A moment white-then melts for ever;

Or like the Borealis race,

That flit ere you can point their place;

Or like the Rainbow's lovely form

Evanishing amid the storm. -

Nae man can tether Time nor Tide,

The hour approaches Tam maun ride;

That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane,

That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;

And sic a night he taks the road in,

As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;

The rattling showers rose on the blast;

The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd;

Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd:

That night, a child might understand,

The deil had business on his hand.

Weel-mounted on his grey mare, Meg,

A better never lifted leg,

Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire,

Despising wind, and rain, and fire;

Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet,

Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet,

Whiles glow'rin round wi' prudent cares,

Lest bogles catch him unawares;

Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,

Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry.

By this time he was cross the ford,

Where in the snaw the chapman smoor'd;

And past the birks and meikle stane,

Where drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane;

And thro' the whins, and by the cairn,

Where hunters fand the murder'd bairn;

And near the thorn, aboon the well,

Where Mungo's mither hang'd hersel'.

Before him Doon pours all his floods,

The doubling storm roars thro' the woods,

The lightnings flash from pole to pole,

Near and more near the thunders roll,

When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees,

Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze,

Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing,

And loud resounded mirth and dancing.

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!

What dangers thou canst make us scorn!

Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil;

Wi' usquabae, we'll face the devil!

The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle,

Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle,

But Maggie stood, right sair astonish'd,

Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd,

She ventur'd forward on the light;

And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight!

Warlocks and witches in a dance:

Nae cotillon, brent new frae France,

But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,

Put life and mettle in their heels.

A winnock-bunker in the east,

There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast;

A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,

To gie them music was his charge:

He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl,

Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. -

Coffins stood round, like open presses,

That shaw'd the Dead in their last dresses;

And (by some devilish cantraip sleight)

Each in its cauld hand held a light.

By which heroic Tam was able

To note upon the haly table,

A murderer's banes, in gibbet-airns;

Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns;

A thief, new-cutted frae a rape,

Wi' his last gasp his gabudid gape;

Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted:

Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted;

A garter which a babe had strangled:

A knife, a father's throat had mangled.

Whom his ain son of life bereft,

The grey-hairs yet stack to the heft;

Wi' mair of horrible and awfu',

Which even to name wad be unlawfu'.

Three lawyers tongues, turned inside oot,

Wi' lies, seamed like a beggars clout,

Three priests hearts, rotten, black as muck,

Lay stinkin, vile in every neuk.

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious,

The mirth and fun grew fast and furious;

The Piper loud and louder blew,

The dancers quick and quicker flew,

The reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit,

Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,

And coost her duddies to the wark,

And linkit at it in her sark!

Now Tam, O Tam! had they been queans,

A' plump and strapping in their teens!

Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flainen,

Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen!-

Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair,

That ance were plush o' guid blue hair,

I wad hae gien them off my hurdies,

For ae blink o' the bonie burdies!

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll,

Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,

Louping an' flinging on a crummock.

I wonder did na turn thy stomach.

But Tam kent what was what fu' brawlie:

There was ae winsome wench and waulie

That night enlisted in the core,

Lang after ken'd on Carrick shore;

(For mony a beast to dead she shot,

And perish'd mony a bonie boat,

And shook baith meikle corn and bear,

And kept the country-side in fear);

Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn,

That while a lassie she had worn,

In longitude tho' sorely scanty,

It was her best, and she was vauntie.

Ah! little ken'd thy reverend grannie,

That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,

Wi twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches),

Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches!

But here my Muse her wing maun cour,

Sic flights are far beyond her power;

To sing how Nannie lap and flang,

(A souple jade she was and strang),

And how Tam stood, like ane bewithc'd,

And thought his very een enrich'd:

Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain,

And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main:

Till first ae caper, syne anither,

Tam tint his reason a thegither,

And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!"

And in an instant all was dark:

And scarcely had he Maggie rallied.

When out the hellish legion sallied.

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,

When plundering herds assail their byke;

As open pussie's mortal foes,

When, pop! she starts before their nose;

As eager runs the market-crowd,

When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;

So Maggie runs, the witches follow,

Wi' mony an eldritch skreich and hollow.

Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin!

In hell, they'll roast thee like a herrin!

In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin!

Kate soon will be a woefu' woman!

Now, do thy speedy-utmost, Meg,

And win the key-stone o' the brig;^1

There, at them thou thy tail may toss,

A running stream they dare na cross.

But ere the keystane she could make,

The fient a tail she had to shake!

For Nannie, far before the rest,

Hard upon noble Maggie prest,

And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;

But little wist she Maggie's mettle!

Ae spring brought off her master hale,

But left behind her ain grey tail:

The carlin claught her by the rump,

And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,

Ilk man and mother's son, take heed:

Whene'er to Drink you are inclin'd,

Or Cutty-sarks rin in your mind,

Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear;

Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.

[Footnote 1: It is a well-known fact that witches, or any evil spirits, have no power to follow a poor wight any further than the middle of the next running stream. It may be proper likewise to mention to the benighted traveller, that when he falls in with bogles, whatever danger may be in his going forward, there is much more hazard in turning back.-R. B.]

full size illustrations here

delete reply

gileson wrote on Nov 1, '08

My g-g-grandmother was a Burns. As she got older, she would wander off downtown in the little farm town in which she lived in South Dakota, pipe in her mouth, stopping people along the way asking them if they could help her get back to Glasgow so she could visit her Uncle Bobby.
Her brogue was so heavy it was hard to understand her ... we never did figure out if her "Uncle Bobby" was "The best laid plans of mice and men..." Bobby or not. It was fun to speculate when we were kids.

delete reply

sweetpotatoqueen wrote on Oct 31, '08

Very Halloween inspired entry that was so entertaining..thank you!

delete reply

dianahopeless wrote on Oct 31, '08

Very nice. Reading it out loud was great, but listening to it in that heavy brogue was wonderful!

delete reply

brendainmad wrote on Oct 30, '08

This was fantastic!

delete reply

brendainmad wrote on Oct 30, '08

Thanks. I'd really like to hear it live, but this will do. BTW, is you still having a problem with slowness on here?

edit delete reply

forgetmenot525 wrote on Oct 30, '08

brendainmad said

Anyone who can recite the entirety of this poem deserves compensation. How I would love to hear some of it over a pint (better make that half a pint)!

Just for you Brenda, sorry but you need to supply your own pint

delete reply

brendainmad wrote on Oct 30, '08

Anyone who can recite the entirety of this poem deserves compensation. How I would love to hear some of it over a pint (better make that half a pint)!

delete reply

sylvie1 wrote on Oct 30, '08, edited on Oct 30, '08

I came across this remarkable poem once before, and it was on a tape so I could actually hear the language being spoken. I thought it might stir up hidden memories of my scottish heritage! Alas, I am now completely American! Hahaha... My ancestors came from Scotland in the 1700's. Thanks for your visit to mine and your kind comments.

delete reply

billatplay wrote on Oct 30, '08

With a Tartan to my surname and a devotee of a pub's Burn's night I have never heard this full version rendered. Just as well really as Haggis and Swede is very filling with one portion. lol