Burns’ Night

One winter’s night, some 90 odd years ago, when my mother was 12 years old, she was playing near an open fire.  She fell and was badly burned.  Although she had two more years of schooling left, she never went back.  But she did read.  And the poetry of Robert Burns stayed with her all her life.

It didn’t mean much to me when I was young apart from when she would sometimes recite the Selkirk Grace at mealtimes, or ‘Scots wha hae’ when her sisters came south on their annual visit, as they did many times when I was growing up.  My Scottish heritage was limited to these few snippets of Burns and boxes of Edinburgh Rock and the Broon’s Annuals which my grandmother sent every Christmas.

We certainly never celebrated Burns’ Night.  But now, for some inexplicable reason, we - (as in Anniemay and I) - do.  Perhaps it’s because she gets the giggles every time I speak in a Scottish accent.  Which, I have to say, is quite authentic.

So as we tuck into our honest and homely fare tonight, I’ll raise a metaphorical dram to blippers everywhere. Lang may yer lum reek.


What though on hamely fare we dine, 
Wear hoddin grey, an' a' that? 
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine -- 
A man's a man for a' that. 
For a' that, an' a' that, 
Their tinsel show, an' a' that, 
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, 
Is king o' men for a' that. 

Robert Burns