To commemorate Burns Night, the greatest Scottish poet (tonight) I have compiled a special video of Scottish artists and artists associated with the National Galleries of Scotland. Favorites of mine include Allan Ramsay, Anya Gallaccio,Duncan Grant George Leslie Hunter, Glenn Onwin, RB Kitaj,Joseph Crawhall, Norman Edgar, Oskar Kokoschka and Robert Burns! Which are yours?
To further the Scottish theme, there is a post about Robert Burns and a poetry competition over on Bookstains. Don’t worry the entries don’t have to be written in the Scottish language but that would be GREAT also 🙂
Just click on Rabbie to enter
PLUS 26th January Happy Birthday to Jackson Pollock earlier post for those who missed it here
It’s not a sunny day, but it is warm. As usually on these humid days, I am off out of the place for a bit of exercise. I thought we would have a bit of poetry and for some reason or other the old Robbie Burns came to mind. I do love his poetry, but its a long time since I read any. When you first read his words, it’s difficult to get the feel for the language because it is very ‘Scottish’, but after a while this does become a lot easier. The words then begin to flow and you do truly appreciate the beauty and wisdom!
Wee, sleekit, cowran, tim’rous beastie,
O, what panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi’ bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,
Wi’ murd’ring pattle!
I’m truly sorry Man’s dominion
Has broken Nature’s social union,
An’ justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle,
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An’ fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen-icker in a thrave ‘S a sma’ request:
I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave,
An’ never miss’t!
Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
It’s silly wa’s the win’s are strewin!
An’ naething, now, to big a new ane,
O’ foggage green!
An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin,
Baith snell an’ keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ wast,
An’ weary Winter comin fast,
An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro’ thy cell.
That wee-bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble,
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble,
But house or hald.
To thole the Winter’s sleety dribble,
An’ cranreuch cauld!
But Mousie, thou are no thy-lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men,
Gang aft agley,
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy!
Still, thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But Och! I backward cast my e’e,
On prospects drear!
An’ forward, tho’ I canna see,
I guess an’ fear!
