BURNS ANNIVERSARY

New Zealand Times, Volume LI, Issue 11738, 28 January 1924, Page 4

BURNS ANNIVERSARY

TRIBUTE TO POETS WORTH

(Specially written for the N.Z. Times)

“There was a lad was' born in Kyle, But whatna day and whatna style I doubt it’s hardly worth the while To be sae nice wi’ Robin, ''He’ll ha’e misfortunes great and sma’, But aye a heart aboon them a’; He’ll be a credit till us a’— We’ll a’ be proud o’ Robin.”

The abiding joy of a nation lies in the history and traditions of its people, an<l its chief pride in its poets and songsters. In the latter connection the saying attributed to Andrew FletchoT, of Saltoun, is significant:—“l knew a vory wise man that believed that, if a man were permitted to make all the ballads, ho need not care, who should make the laws of a nation/ And if Robert Burns hao lived tho Biblical span of three-score and ten years instead of passing away at the ago of 37 years, who can tell the extent to which his influence would not have reached? .During the short lifetime he spent on this earth liis influence on the national chars cter was far-reaching, and would have reached enormous dimensions had he been granted a few years’ respite. But Fate willed that it should not be. SCOTTISH WORTHIES. ' In the field of literature Scotland ia generously endowed, and in the supply of poets and songsters is particularly well gifted. In those she is prolific to an amazing extent, and tho national characteristic runs through every line of their outpourings. Whether in the broad Doric or the conventional Anglo-Saxon diction, the songs and poems of Scotland breaths tho atmosphere of that Northern clime, and the people are responsive to every chord sounded. Hogg, Scott. Allan Ramsay, Tannaliill, Motherwell, the Baroness Nairn—to mention only a few at random—have each contributed to the poetio wealth of the nation, and the songs of one or the other are familiar to every son of “Caledonia, stern and wild Meet nurse for a poetic child,” os Sir Walter Scott wrote. But at the head of them all stands one alone, in the effulgence Of whose genius all other lights show dimly; one who can in very truth be designed “the Band of Scotland,” the Poetic king .of Caledonia—Robert Burns! -No mortal can advance a better claim to immortality than the humble Ayrshiro laddie whoso anniversary is celebrated the world over on the 25th of this month of January, 1221. It is almost impossible for people of another nation to appreciate the love and affection with which Robert Burns is regarded m Scotland. The other Celtic peoples of the United Kingdom may very probably have an intuitive grasp of the position, for they have their national poets who have given articulate expression to the sentiments which burn in every heart. But many poets generally sing of national heroes andindies of high degree, and tho joys and sorrows of the common herd are only lightly, if at all, touched upon. RIDER OF PEGASUS. Burns was of the people, and he wrote for the people; more than that, he was a humanist, filled with a great love for humanity, an inspired affection; and this, allied with a natural facility of versification, enabled him to strike chords in the hearts of mankind that gladly responded to the master-touch—-chords which reverberate to-day with a vigour as fresh as when they were first struck in his native shire. He was not a mere rhymester, though an adept at that pastime all the same; to the intricate, academic forms of versification he was a stranger; but every stanza that he wrote came straight from his heart, etery line he penned pulsated with the living fire of his inspired personality, and the noblest sentiments ever uttered by any human being gushed from him for the enrichment of our national literature and character, to be cherished fOT ever as a national heritage. The Hippocrene fountain on Mount Helicon never sent forth a stream more pure than the eloquence that welled up from the heart of Robert Burns; and winged Pegasus never bore a rider more worthy of immortality than the sweet singer who first saw the light of day in Alloway 1© years ago the 25th of this month. His hatted of shams was intense, and his caustic denunciations of doubledealing, hollow pretence, and crookedness In high places are thrilling examples of righteous indignation As a masterpiece of philosophy and a sermon for the times rolled into one, th» poem from which the following verses aro quoted, will live for ever:— “What though on hamely fair we dine, Wear hodden gray an’ a’ thatf Gi’e fools their silks, and knaves their wine, A man’s a mati for a’ that! For a’ that, and a* that. Their tinsel show an’ a’ that, The honest man, though e’er sae poor. Is king o* men for a’ that! “A king can make a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a’ that, But an honest man’s a boon his might, Guid faith he maunna fa’ that! For a’ that, and a* that, Their dignities, and a’ that. The pith o’ sense, and pride o’ worth, Are higher marks than a’ that"POET OF THE EMOTIONS.” If ever the common people had a champion, it was When Robert Burn? sang of tteir joys and sorrows, mingled with their laughter and tears, joined in their convivialities, and shared in their reverence for sacred subjects. As is common knowledge, the Scot is by Nature religiously inclined, and his occasional lapses from the path of rectitude 6hly heighten the seeming inconsistency of a godly man yielding to temptatioft. In this Burns was as one of themselves, and was just as frail as those whom he rebuked. He played the gamut of all their emotion? with the touch of a master, and championed the cause of his fellows with all the ardour of his highly-strung nature. Injustice of any kind was scathingly denounced by him at all times and seasons, and in such eloquent language that the Kingdom was stirred from John o’ Groats to Land’s End. Burns was above all a poet of the emotions, and some of the tenderest conceptions of the human brain flowed from him to the wonder and delight not. only of his compatriots, but of the whole world. SCHOLARS’ APPRECIATIONS. W. M. Rossetti wrote: “There is hardly in all literature an instance of such immediate and immense popularity, permeating the whole body politic of his countrymen, as that of Burns’s pftems. Everybody understood them, everybody enjoyed thorn; all were proud that Scotland should have produced a Burns, that lie should reflect sp much and so expressly national a renown on liis country, and t'hnt themselves should be iho sons of such a land, and compatriots of such a man At this day there aro probably ten Scotchman to whom Burns and his work are breathing and potent realities, for one Englishman to whom Shakespeare is any more than a name." In an admirable set of verses Henry Wadsworth Longfellow nays a tribute

Memory Revered by Every Scotsman

-to the memory of the poet, of which tho following will suffice for the present: "Touched by his hand, the wayside weed Becomes a flower; the lowliest reed Beside the stream Is colthed in beauty; gorse and grass And heather, where his footsteps pass. The brighter seem. "For now 'he haunts his native land As an immortal youth; his hand Guides every plough; He sits beside each ingle-nook, His voice is In eaoh rushing brook, Each rustling hough.” And Oliver Wondell Holmes sang so sweetly : “We love him, not for sweetest song, Though never tone so tender; Wc love him, even in hie wrong, His wasteful self-surrender. “We praise him, not for gifts divine— His Muse was born of woman— His manhood breathes in every line; Was ever heart more human? “We love him, praise him, just for this: In every form and feature, Through wealth and want, through woe and bliss, He saw his follow -creature. “Wo soul oould sink beneath hie love— Not even angel blasted ; No mortal power oould soar above The pride that all outlasted. “I fling my pebble on the cairn Of him, though, dead, undying; Sweet Nature’s nursling, bonniest bairn Beneath her daisies lying. “The waning suns, tho wasting globe Shall spare the minstrel’s story— The centuries weave hie purple robe Tho mountain-mist of glory!" ’ THE BURNS FEDERATION. An indication of the nation-wide esteem and respect in whioh the memoiy of Robert Bums is held in Scotland, is furnished by the Burns Federation of Scotland, a powerful and an influential body formed for the' perpetuation or the name and works of the poet. Towards the end of last year the federation held its annual meeting at the Auld Toon of Ayr, when Sir- Robert Bruce-tnstoric name!—was elected president, and the proceedings were marked with the greatest enthusiasm. Some excitement was caused by the attempt of Glasgow representatives to have the headquarters removed to their city from Kilmarnock, but an overwhelming vote decided that there could be no fitter abode for the headquarters of the association than Kilmarnock, which had been so closely associated with the poet in his lifetime. With this decision most Scots will ootoialiy agree; for while adt«a c Qlas B'ow, as the commercial capital of Scotland, is eminently fitted to be the centre of Scottish activities in 3iS, OS iL® ,, S7i. r^?, ect ’ the fact cannot be disputed that Kilmarnock has a special and peculiar claim for consideration as far aa the Burns Federation is concerned. The poet first saw the light of day in Ayr, his early life was spent there,': nd no other town m Scotland is more intimately connected with his career as a young and struggling man—as a young ”■ -WSSTSSiTW SSii’V.’ Haggle P “Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Yf® at chieftain o’ tho puddin’ race! Aboon them a’ ye tak? your place, Painch, tripe, or thailrn; Weel are ye worthy of a grace As lang’s my airm. ‘The groaning trencher there ye fill Your hurdies like a distant hill. Your pin would help to mend a mill In time o' need, While through your pores the dews distil Like amber bead. f “His knife see rustic labour dight And cut you up with ready slight, ’ Trenching your gushing entrails bright Like ony ditch; And then, oh, what a glorious sight Warm-reekin’, rich! ‘ ’ "Then horn for horn they stretch and strive, Do’il tak' the hindmost, on they drive, Till all their weol-ewalled kytes belyve Are bent like drums; Then auld guidman, naist like to riVe Bethankit hums. - “Ye powers wha mak’ mankind your care, J And dish them out, their hill o’ fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware That jumps in buggies; But if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer, Gi’e her a haggis!" Or appreciate the sentiment of this beautiful song:— "Oh., my luve’s like a red, red rose, That’s newly sprung in June; Oh, my luve’s like the melodies That’s sweetly played in tune. “As fair art thou, my ibonnie lass, iSo deep in luve am I; And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a’ the seas gang dry. “Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear; And the rocks melt wi’ the sun; T will luve thee thee still, my dear, While the sands of life shall run.” ANTIPODEAN SENTIMENT. It Is a cause for greffit satisfaction among all who hail from the “land of the mountain and the flood” that even in this distant islo of tho southern seas, far removed from the influences and associations that keep alive his momory in tho country of his birth, there is a whole-souled admiration for the genius of Burns that bridges the distance between tho two hemispheres, thnt is a common bond of unit;? between the members of tho Scottish nation who are sent- • tered over the face of tho earth, and who would never tolerate the slightest attempt to belittle the name or reputation of that marvellous child of genius, inspired if ever inspiration moved a human being on this nlanet. There ore mnnv in this country who revere the name of Rums, but who have never seen the land whero the national poet was horn. But the glorious story has been brought from overseas bv tneir forbears, and they have learned to love and revere ‘ho honoured name of Bobert Burns. Tt is on occasions like this, when the great enniversatv comes round, that Scots the world over become ns one united whole, joining in paying tribute to the transcendent genius of their well-beloved

bard. All differences are sunk on this auspicious occasion, man meets man on a common ground. The loyalty of the Boot overseas is no whit less ardent than that of his countryman at home; in fact, a® the old saying goes, “Absence mqkes the heart grow fonder,” so it is quite feasible that the warmth of Scotsmen overseas for tlieir national bard is equal to, even if it does not eclipse, that of the Soot at home. Burns in his career had many moods, and he had poems and songs for every mood. To Scotsmen the world o’er the convivial touch in “Willie brewed a peck o’ maut” will always appeal as long as whisky is distilled north of the Tweed, and even after. His amorous verses are many, and in what beautiful language ie the tender passion dealt with. c Ae fond kiss," "My love, she’s but a lassie, yet,” "The Lass of Ballochmyle,” "My Nannie’s aWa!*” and scores of others just as familiar reflect the ardent nature of the poet, and endear him to all levers. But in his other moods he is equally skilful with the lyre. What could he a sweeter picture of love in old age than ■ that depicted in “John Anderson, my jo,” and is there any set of verses more calculated to stir the blood than the immortal "Scots wha ha’e”? The exquisite tenderness of lhe verses addressed "To. Mary in Heaven” must be the last quotation in this brief review -. “Thou ling’ring star, with less’ning ray, That lov’st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher’st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. f*h. Mary i dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? See’st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast ? "That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forgot the hallowed grove Where by the winding Ayr we met. To live one day of parting love? Eternity will, not eSace 'Pilose records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace; Ah! little thought we ’twas our last! “Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, O’erhung with wild woods, thick’uing green; The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar Twined amorous round the raptured scene. The flowers sprang wanton to be pressed, The birds sang love on every spray— Till too, 100 soon the glowing west Proclaimed the speed of winged day "Still o’er these scenes my memory wakes. And fondly broods with miser care, Time but the impression stronger makes, As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary! dear departed shade! Wliero is thy place blissful restP See’st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear’st tliou the groans that, rend his breast?” “AULD LANG SYNE.” Th<o famous parting song, "Should auld acquaintance he foPTot,,” is knowh the world over, and shares with tho National Anthem the honour of being sang at tho do oo of every function of any consequence. The lines, though not by any means brilliant, have a fascination in them that sways multitudes; they touch a chord in every human breast, and their Very human nppeal at onoe awakes a reechoing chord; that, will sound till time shall l>e no more. And having paid this brief tribute to Scotland’s king-poet, the Writer lays down his pen with the fer-

vent hope that long may the memory of Robert Bums be honoured in song and story, and) that with tho increasing years the celebration of the birth of the “Bard of Caledonia" will take on added fervour and significance; concluding with Robert Tan nail id's fine lines:— "Hie merits proven—Fame her blast has blown, Now Stotia’s Bard o’er all the world is known — But trembling doubts here check my unpolished lays, What can they add to a whole world’s praise? Yet, while revolving time this day returns, Let Scotchmen glory in the name of Bums! } —A.B.M.C. [The above article was intended to appear on January 25th, the anniversary of tho poet's birth, but unforseen circumstances unfortunately delayed publication until tho present issue.!