Growing up in Florida, there was not much difference between midsummer and midwinter daylight—from 13 hours of summer daylight to 13 hours of winter night. On summer visits to my grandmother on the Iron Range in northern Minnesota, I’d be amazed that it was still light at 10 p.m. Now living in Illinois, it’s no fun when the sun sets at 4:50 even a month after solstice. But even northern Minnesota doesn’t hold a candle to Scotland. Today, the sun set in Inverness at 4:19 p.m. and won’t arise until 8:38 the next morning. So to break up the winter gloom, the Scots invented another midwinter celebration — Burns Night.
Dunnet Bay, Scotland
The national bard Robert Burns was born January 25, 1759, and many Scots celebrate his life, writing, and national heritage with dinner, drinks, songs and stories on his birthday. Perhaps someone will read a bit of
How Lang and Dreary is the Night
When I am from my Dearie:
I restless lie from e’en to morn
Though I were ne’er so weary.
Glen Shiel
Here’s a verse with a phrase near the end I’ll bet you might’ve even used without knowing it’s origin.. Burns was ploughing a field in November when he destroyed a mouse’s nest and it ran away in terror. From, To a Mouse
. . . .
Thy wee bit housie too in ruin,
Its fragile walls the winds have strewn,
And you've nothing new to build a new one,
Of grasses green;
And bleak December winds ensuing,
Both cold and keen.
You saw the fields laid bare and waste,
And weary winter coming fast,
And cosy there beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash; the cruel ploughman crushed
Thy little cell.
Your wee bit heap of leaves and stubble,
Had cost thee many a weary nibble.
Now you're turned out for all thy trouble
Of house and home
To bear the winter's sleety drizzle,
And hoar frost cold.
But, mousie, thou art not alane,
In proving foresight may be in vain,
The best laid schemes of mice and men,
Go oft astray,
And leave us nought but grief and pain,
To rend our day.
Still thou art blessed, compared with me!
The present only touches thee,
But, oh, I backward cast my eye
On prospects drear,
And forward, though I cannot see,
I guess and fear.
Cairngorms
Or perhaps the long night provides a snowy glen in moonlight
CAULD FROSTY MORNING
'Twas past ane o'clock in a cauld frosty morning,
When cankert November blaws over the plain,
I heard the kirk-bell repeat the loud warning,
As, restless, I sought for sweet slumber in vain:
Then up I arose, the silver moon shining bright;
Mountains and valleys appearing all hoary white;
Forth I would go, amid the pale, s'ient night,
And visit the Fair One, the cause of my pain.-
. . . .
Cairngorms
And here’s a verse of Burns’ you might’ve even sung yourself. We sing on New Years Eve, and it traditionally closes the Burns Night celebration.
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne!
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne.
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne. . . .
Glen Shiel
Burns certainly lived close to nature as his verses are filled with such beauty and images of wildness, but as with his Mousie, he turns those images to reflections on human life. This one, called Song Composed In August, reminds me of Joni Mitchell’s Big Yellow Taxi. Here’s the full text filled with birds, and a link to a terrific sung version if you’d like to listen along. So perhaps on Monday night you can get a wee dram of whisky, and listen to Westlin’ Winds and enjoy his images of the birds of Scotland on a long light day in August, land think of the brighter days that are ahead — thus every kind their pleasure find.
Now westlin winds and slaught'ring guns
Bring Autumn's pleasant weather;
The moorcock springs on whirring wings
Amang the blooming heather:
Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain,
Delights the weary farmer;
And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night,
To muse upon my charmer.
The partridge loves the fruitful fells,
The plover loves the mountains;
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells,
The soaring hern the fountains:
Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves,
The path of man to shun it;
The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush,
The spreading thorn the linnet.
Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find,
The savage and the tender;
Some social join, and leagues combine,
Some solitary wander:
Avaunt, away! the cruel sway,
Tyrannic man's dominion;
The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry,
The flutt'ring, gory pinion!
But, Peggy dear, the ev'ning's clear,
Thick flies the skimming swallow,
The sky is blue, the fields in view,
All fading-green and yellow:
Come let us stray our gladsome way,
And view the charms of Nature;
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn,
And ev'ry happy creature.
We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk,
Till the silent moon shine clearly;
I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest,
Swear how I love thee dearly:
Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs,
Not Autumn to the farmer,
So dear can be as thou to me,
My fair, my lovely charmer!
