Of Scottish Literature

Braveheart was an excellent movie, and for the most part was well directed by Mel Gibson. For those of you who have not seen the movie, it's about the Scottish hero and warrior William Wallace and the struggle he and his people underwent while at war with England in the 14th century. Though the movie itself was one of the best that I've seen, being one of my favorites, some of the historical claims that it made were modestly inaccurate.

One such claim was that prior to Wallace the Scots had no country of their own, hence the conflict with England and their struggle for independence. Wallace proclaims in Braveheart that (referring to the conflicts the Scots were undergoing with the English), "Now is our chance. Now. If we join we can win. If we win, well then we'll have what none of us has ever had before: a country of our own."

In fact, Scotland had been a country of their own since 843 AD- 427 years prior to Wallace. What the movie failed to mention was that prior to the Scottish Wars of Independence there had been a long succession of kings; and that it wasn't until 1286, when Alexander III died without a rightful heir to take the throne (his 3-year-old granddaughter, Margaret the Maid of Norway, died before she could take it up), that Scotland slipped into a dire state of internal chaos which the English took aggressive advantage of.

That said, it was through the course of studying the events that led up to the Scottish Wars of Independence that I came across a poem that is considered "the oldest fragment of Scottish literature" that has survived to date. The poem is a lament over Alexander's death and a plea to Christ to prevent the motherland from succumbing to her troubled state without a king. Not only is it beautifully written, it was also written in dialect.

It was on the night of March 19th, 1286, that Alexander III, traveling horseback along the coast of Fife, near Kinghorn, was tossed from his steed and died there from wounds that he sustained. Scotland, without her righteous king and a rightful heir, would soon find herself plunged into some dark days to come ... hence the poem below (followed by one of many modern rendering of the old dialect).



The Original Fragment

Quhen Alysandyr oure Kyng wes dede,
That Scotland led in luwe and le,
Away wes sons off ale and brede,
Off wyne and wax, off gamyn, and gle:
Oure gold wes changyd in to lede.
Cryst, borne into Vyrgynte,
Succoure Scotland and Remede
That stad perplexyte.


Modern Translation

When Alexander our King was dead
That Scotland led in love and loyalty
Away were son[g]s of ale and bread
Of wine and success(?), of gaming and glee
Our gold was changed into lead.
Christ, born into Virginity,
Succor Scotland and remedy
That state['s] perplexity.

 

 

Lamentfully beautiful, right? Moreover, interesting both because of the dialect infused into it (led in luwe and le) and also because of the choice spelling of words (Vyrgynte). Anyhow, I hope you liked the poem and the brief story behind it. And about the movie, Braveheart, I highly recommend checking it out- it's an intense movie riddled with war and struggle and infused with romance and notions of freedom. Good flick ...

Old Long Since

Auld Lang Syne is a Scottish dialect poem written by Robert Burns, one of Scotland's finest poets. The literal transliteration of the title (auld lang syne) is "old long since" (which roughly means "days gone by").

The poem was inspired by an old folk song, and possibly influenced by a ballad written by James Watson in 1711. Upon its completion in 1788, Burns submitted it to the Scots Musical Museum with heavy emphasis on its oral and antiquated origin.

The poem, which begins with the question as to whether or not old time should be forgotten, has become a celebratory song in most English speaking countries. In America, for example, it is sung as a New Year comes into existence, and the ‘Old Year’ recedes.

****

Auld Lang Syne

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot
and days of auld lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We'll take a cup o' kindness yet
For auld lang syne

We twa hae run aboot the braes
And pou'd the gowans fine;
we've wander'd mony a weary foot
Sin' auld lang syne

We two hae paidled i' the burn,
Frae mornin' sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roar'd
Sin' auld lang syne

And here's a hand, my trusty friend,
And gie's a hand o' thine;
We'll take a cup o' kindness yet
For auld lang syne

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot
and days of auld lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We'll take a cup o' kindness yet
For auld lang syne


****

Since the publication of Burns’ poem and the selection of music that was to attend it, many versions of the song have since come into being (notwithstanding, the common theme has remained the same). Below is a version- a pretty version- of that old Scottish folk song passed down to us here as we exit a decade, and enter a new one.

Have a happy and safe New Year.

When the Frost is on the Punkin

James Whitcomb Riley, a man who had a hand in bringing Dunbar to wider recognition of the American literary culture, is another poet whose works are almost all in dialect.

Here’s a further example of a poem done in dialect. As you read it keep in mind that Riley was born and raised in Greenfield, Indiana (hence the nickname: the Hoosier Poet). The Old National Road cut right through Indiana and brought many visitors across the boy's path, so much so that he acquired an ability to 'read' the dialect of where these visitors were from. I'm quite certain this bore influence on his works.


When the Frost is on the Punkin

WHEN the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,
And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it's then the time a feller is a-feelin' at his best,
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here—
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees;
But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin' of the tangled leaves as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries—kindo' lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover overhead!—
O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the cellar-floor in red and yaller heaps;
And your cider-makin's over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With theyr mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and sausage too!...
I don't know how to tell it—but ef such a thing could be
As the angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me—
I'd want to 'commodate 'em—all the whole-indurin' flock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

An Easy Goin' Feller: Poem In Dialect (Dunbar)

Paul Laurence Dunbar is one of the most widely known- and probably one of the best- poets to write in dialect. My favorite poem of his is without qualification The Poet and His Song (a poem written in Standard English), yet every time I read one of his dialect poems (or any such poem for that matter) I’m always moved in a way that doesn’t happen with Standard English reads.

Both have their beauty, but poems in dialect seem to me to impart an apperception of culture that poems in grammatically correct English cannot. It is in this sense that I feel poems in dialect are prettier and more interesting. (Don't get me wrong, almost all of my favorite poems are in 'correct' syntax.)

I don’t know quite yet if I have a favorite dialect poem done by Dunbar, but I find this one below delightful (not to mention its message is good).


An Easy Goin' Feller

Ther' ain't no use in all this strife,
An' hurryin', pell-mell, right thro' life.
I don't believe in goin' too fast
To see what kind o' road you've passed.
It ain't no mortal kind o' good,
'N' I would n't hurry ef I could.
I like to jest go joggin' 'long,
To limber up my soul with song;
To stop awhile 'n' chat the men,
'N' drink some cider now an' then.
Do' want no boss a-standin' by
To see me work; I allus try
To do my dooty right straight up,
An' earn what fills my plate an' cup.
An' ez fur boss, I'll be my own,
I like to jest be let alone,
To plough my strip an' tend my bees,
An' do jest like I doggoned please.
My head's all right, an' my heart's meller,
But I'm a easy-goin' feller.