In bygone times, we male Jocks tended to go just a wee touch Neanderthal at this time of year. Not, of course, that this is a bad thing, if hmb happens to be looking in. Personally, I blame it on the long, dark nights, the need to step up the fat content of our diet even higher than usual in order to get close to feeling slightly less than cold and the Six Nations tournament with its inevitable realisation that we are doomed, yet again, to contest the wooden spoon with the Italians.
It doesn’t help that the poet Burns chose this time of the year to shuffle on to this mortal coil and that it’s now that we have to get seriously stuck into paying due tribute to his immortal memory. As any true Scot will tell you, we were not put on this earth to enjoy ourselves and all this required celebration of our national bard can be a right pain in the sporran, if truth be told.
Pure caveman stuff in the past as well. Your standard Burns Supper involved a mainly male foregathering getting seriously blootered with one or two token women supporting the poor wifie who had been coerced into replying to the toast to ‘The Lasses’. Said toast was usually slightly obscene and deeply unfunny. Andy Gray and Richard Keys would be brilliant at them.
It’s all changed these days , of course. We modern Jocks are New Men who have moved forward and embraced our feminine sides. We really care and we sometimes even remember to put the toilet seat down afterwards.
I have just returned from my last Burns Supper experience of 2011 and I can clearly see how far we New Jocks have come. It was a Burns Valentine Supper. You had to write a Valentine pome in Burns style and deliver it to your beloved in front of the whole company. John Knox must be spinning in his grave.
We all did very well, but I had the slight difficulty that my beloved chose to go down with laryngitis this morning and could not attend. I’ll admit that I backslid a wee bit and went anyway. Our host is a member of the Scotch Malt Whisky Society and knows his grape and I was not about to miss the chance of a good dram or a fine wine. I think that Mrs M said that she understood but I couldn’t really hear her and I don’t know sign language.
Needless to say, I was racked with guilt that Mrs M was not there. The mental anguish involved spurred me to new heights of poetic endeavour, in my opinion. I could, of course, be wrong. I’m going to share my heartfelt Burns Valentine poem to her anyway – almost English version on the left.
That throat is bright, red, raw.
With might and main, she’ll strive and strain,
But she cannot speak at all.
She cannot speak, she cannot sing,
There’s no sound to be heard.
And, for the first time since we wed,
I’m having the last word.
My love has got a sore, sore throat,
So she cannot bend my ear,
I’ve never been this happy,
For many a long year.
I know I’m cursed, it will not last,
Her voice will come anew
And, when it does, I fear the worst
For saying all this to you.
My love has got a sore, sore throat,
She’s still my only dear.
She sends her love to all of you
And wished she had been here.
Her thrapple’s bricht reid raw.
Wi micht and main, she’ll strive and strain,
But she cannae speak ava.
She cannae speir, she cannae chant,
There’s nae soond tae be heard.
Syne, for the first time since we wed
I’m hae’ing the last word.
Aye, my luve has ta’en a sair, sair throat.
And she cannae ding ma ear.
I’ve ne’er been sae blythe as this
In mony the lang year.
I ken I’m doomed, it cannae hold.
Her voice will come anew.
It’s then I’ll tak an awfu’ skelp,
For telling this tae you.
Though my luve has ta’en a sair,sair throat,
She’s aye my onlie dear.
She gies her luve tae a’ o’ you,
And ettled tae be here.
Boadicea's Chariot 
One of the perks of being an administrator is that one gets to see Private Posts before they become Public – I’ve had my eye on this wee gem for a while. Love it!
An amusing tale and a creditable poem in either language, JM.
But my favourite Burns is this one –
Good one, John, although you lost me a bit with the Six nations tournament. Don’t have a deil what that is about. A fifteen a side game of wrestling, perhaps?
A few minor issues that you could clear up for me. Shirley, I mean surely, there is an i in Lassies. The capitalisation of the L tells me you didn’t mean Glasses. Is Lasses accepted in our language?
Poem, Verse 1 line 4, Scottish version: ava. I’ve not came across this word and could plead ignorance of youth, would ataw not be more apt? Maybe my Glasgow tongue is different to Ayrshire Bob’s. Ataw also rhymes with raw, anaw.
Excellent!! You could sing it to her. I’m sure she would respond positively. Ahem.
I’m trying to forget about the Six Nations.
Aye weel, I was for bed but I see that JW is up and about and I regard it as my sacred duty to lead his faltering steps towards the light whenever I can. I’ll be with you in a minute, grasshopper!
Boa, thanks. It was in Private for quite a while, wasn’t it? Eventually, I gave up trying to justify the Jock version. I enjoyed writing the post and I am pleased and gratified that you enjoyed reading it.
Bearsy, I yield to none in my love of our boy but George is one of my all-time comedic heroes. It’s a close call, Burns-wise. Tipping the balance, Rab had Mary Morrison, Clarinda, Jean Armour et aliae but George had the divine Gracie. No contest.
Right then, JW.’Lasses’ is acceptable in Burns speak, pal! Probably the preferred spelling at the time but we’ve all moved on from then and ‘Lassies’ is probably OK these days, I suppose:-
http://www.worldburnsclub.com/poems/translations/green_gro_the_rashes_o.htm
‘Ava’? I didn’t google it but I grew up with it and I’m prepared to bet that if you do said google, you’ll aiblins find that it means ‘at all’ in Scots.
It was – I saw the ‘pome’ go from verses to no verses and back again. Wondered what you were up to!
I rather like the idea of Knox spinning in his grave – hateful man should have no peace – but then he’d probably have disapproved of Burns as well. 🙂
Hi, Janh1.
Embra is full to bursting with people of the Welsh persuasion. Looking forward to tomorrow as only one of us can come second. Not that it matters because it’s no loss what a friend takes.
On the other hand, singing to Mrs M is not really an option at the moment. She was due to sing ‘Brahms Requiem’ as part of the SCO Chorus in Weegie City last night and in Embra on Sunday. Now banned by her doctor from singing for three weeks and she’s not totally thrilled.
To be fair, and it’s why I quite like her, I performed the pome for her when I trickled home tonight and she allegedly loved it.
We have John Knox and his followers to thank for their widespread belief that dancing is sinful as it may lead to stand-up sex…..
Erratum! It was stand-up sex they considered sinful as it may lead to dancing!
Royalist, I assumed the ending “ie” signifies a diminutive. So a lassie would be a wee lass, though I know we often double-egg that pudding and talk of wee lassies and wee birdies and so on.
JM, sorry to hear Mrs JM’s throat is like a red, red rose. It is a very distressing ailment, laryngitis.
Ahhh, very sweet Mr Mackie. The poem performance, I mean. Shame about the Brahms. That’s truly wonderful stuff. Get well soon, Mrs M.
I await tomorrow with some trepidation. I will be mostly hiding behind my blow-up daffodil and hoping someone will hand Gatland a sword to fall upon. There’s a good one at the Stirling Monument, i seem to remember…
Nice one JM, did the guilt diminish as the Laphraig increased?
JM you are a scholar and a wit! I bet these occasions are pure magic for the lads. I was once a guest at the Glasgow Sutherland Association through an older friend George Campbell. Glorious speeches, fine humour and great comradeship. Your verse is splendid. I read it first in the Scots and so fitting it is in that language – I understood 90% plus and second-guessed the rest. I do miss those Scottish occasions – a lot of guys I knew are swirling the kilt in richer tartans!
To whom it may concern.
I popped back in tonight to have another go at justifying the Jock version of my pome. Pressing ‘Edit’. I was advised that there was a more recent autosave version of my post. In the spirit of wild surmise that was typified by Watt, Hume. Robertson, Hutton, Macadam, Dunlop and all the rest of the usual suspects from Caledonia (stern and wild), I pressed ‘Update’ to discover that I now have a beautifully justified version of said post.
So, thank you whoever you are.
Hi., omg.
Good guess and spot on as it happens. You clearly remember my fondness for Islay malts.
30 people at the soiree and two bottles of Scotch Malt Whisky Society offerings on each of the 3 tables involved. I got the Bowmore straight away (the iodine is a dead give away, in my opinion). Mine host was then impressed by the fact that I only missed the other distillery by a few miles. Called it as Glenfarclas and it turned out to be Craigellachie. So I won.
My prize was that I got the drink of my choice and that was, of course, Laphroiag.
What day is it?
H, papaguinea.
Pure deid magic for said lads to be fair. I am glad that you have clearly enjoyed your times in Scotland, even although they all appear to have been on the Weegie dark side. You must try Embra some time.
Not that we ever boast about the fact that we live on the right side of the country. Our watchword is ‘humility’. When Glesca came up with the ludicrous slogan -‘Glasgow – It’s smiles better’, we countered it with the self-effacing – ‘Embra – Slightly superior’.
Says all that needs to be said, in my opinion.
JM – in re #14 – have a look at the HTML; a couple of floating divs makes it easy. Save for later, perhaps? 😎