In Honour of the Bard

The Cotter's Saturday Night.


My lov'd, much honour'd, much respected friend!
No mercenary bard his homage pays;
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end,
My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise:
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,
The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene;
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways;
What Aiken in a cottage would have been;
Ah! tho his worth unknown, far happier there I ween!

November chill blaws loud wi angry sugh;
The short'ning winter-day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh;
The black'ning trains o craws to their repose:
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes,
This night his weekly moil is at an end,
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes,
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend.

At length his lonely cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through
To meet their dad, wi flichterin noise and glee.
His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie,
His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile,
The lisping infant, prattling on his knee,
Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile,
An makes him quite forget his labor and his toil.

Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in,
At service out, amang the farmers roun;
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin
A cannie errand to a neebor town:
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown,
In youthfu bloom, love sparkling in her e'e,
Comes hame; perhaps, to show a braw new gown,
Or deposits her sair-won penny-fee,
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.

With joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet,
And each for other's welfare kindly spiers:
The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet;
Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears.
The parents partial eye their hopeful years;
Anticipation forward points the view;
The mother, wi her needle and her sheers
Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new;
The father mixes a' wi admonition due.

Their master's and their mistress's command,
The younkers a' are warned to obey;
And mind their labors wi an eydent hand,
And ne'er tho out of sight, to jauk or play;
'And O! be sure to fear the Lord alway,
And mind your duty, duly, morn and night;
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray,
Implore His counsel and assisting might:
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright.'

But hark! a rap comes gently to the door;
Jenny, wha kens the meaning o the same;
Tells how a neebor lad came o'er the moor,
To do some errands, and convoy her hame.
The wily mother sees the conscious flame
Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek;
With heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name,
While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak;
Weel-pleas'd the mother hears, it's nae wild, worthless rake.

Wi kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben;
A strappin youth, he takes the mother's eye;
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill taen;
The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye.
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi joy,
But blate an laithfu, scarce can weel behave;
The mother, wi a woman's wiles, can spy
What makes the youth sae bashful and sae grave;
Weel-pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave.

O happy love! where love like this is found:
O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare!
I've paced much this weary, mortal round,
And sage experience bids me this declare,
'If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare,
One cordial in this melancholy vale,
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair
In other's arms, breathe out the tender tale,
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale.'

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart,
A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth!
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art,
Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth?
Curse on his perjur'd arts! dissembling, smooth!
Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exil'd?
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth,
Points to the parents fondling o'er their child?
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild?

But now the supper crowns their simple board,
The halesome parritch, chief o Scotia's food;
The soupe their only hawkie does afford,
That, 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood:
The dame brings forth, in complimental mood,
To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell;
And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it guid:
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell,
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin lint was i' the bell.

The chearfu supper done, wi serious face,
They, round the ingle, form a circle wide;
The sire turns o'er, wi patriarchal grace,
The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride.
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside,
His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare;
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He wales a portion with judicious care;
And 'Let us worship God!' he says with solemn air.

They chant their artless notes in simple guise,
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim;
Perhaps Dundee's wild-warbling measures rise,
Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name;
Or noble Elgin beets the heavenward flame,
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays:
Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame;
The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise;
Nae unison hae they, with our Creator's praise.

The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
How Abram was the friend of God on high;
Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage
With Amalek's ungracious progeny;
Or, how the royal Bard did groaning lie
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire;
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire;
Or other holy Seers that tune the sacred lyre.

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme:
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;
How He, who bore in Heaven the second name,
Had not on earth whereon to lay His head;
How His first followers and servants sped;
The precepts sage they wrote to many a land:
How he, who lone in Patmos banished,
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand,
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd by Heaven's command.

Then kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal King,
The saint, the father, and the husband prays:
Hope 'springs exulting on triumphant wing.'
That thus they all shall meet in future days,
There, ever bask in uncreated rays,
No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear,
Together hymning their Creator's praise,
In such society, yet still more dear;
While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere.

Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride,
In all the pomp of method, and of art;
When men display to congregations wide
Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart,
The Power, incens'd, the pageant will desert,
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;
But haply, in some cottage far apart,
May hear, well-pleas'd, the language of the soul;
And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enroll.

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way,
The youngling cottagers retire to rest:
The parent-pair their secret homage pay,
And proffer up to Heaven the warm request,
That he who stills the raven's clam'rous nest,
And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride,
Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best,
For them and for their little ones provide;
But, chiefly, in their hearts with Grace Divine preside.

From scenes like these, old Scotia's grandeur springs
That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad:
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,
'An honest man's the noblest work of God';
And certes, in fair Virtue's heavenly road,
The cottage leaves the palace far behind;
What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load,
Disguising oft the wretch of human kind,
Studied in arts of Hell, in wickedness refin'd!

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!
For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent!
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil
Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!
And O! may Heaven their simple lives prevent
From Luxury's contagion, weak and vile!
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent,
A virtuous populace may rise the while,
And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd Isle.

O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide,
That stream'd thro Wallace's undaunted heart,
Who dar'd to, nobly, stem tyrannic pride,
Or nobly die, the second glorious part:
[The patriot's God, peculiarly Thou art,
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!]
O never, never Scotia's realm desert;
But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!

Crime and Punishment

So, that's me finished with my first Dostoevsky. It's really good. Pick it up and read it sometime in your life. Unlike some of my favourite Dickens, it's not hard to get into - really, honestly it's not! I know, I know what you're thinking - Russian novels - bleak, gray, sad, depressing, and yes, Crime and Punishment has all these aspects, but you know what? So does Dickens, and he's great, just like Dostoevsky. Why? Because there's also themes of redemption and grace - of evil transformed into good.

I loved it because it has so many layers:
- the devestating critique of socialist and nihilist thought (I know, that doesn't really entice you to read it, but from a philosophical point of view, it's fascinating)Raskolnikov thinks that the end justifies the means, that great men have the right to 'overstep obstacles' for the good of society. Putting this theory into practice, following it to it's logical conclusions, results in destruction - self-destruction of Raskolnikov, two murders, and in a certain sense the destruction of others as well - like his mother. When the end justifies the means, the means ends up destroying the end.

- a vindication of total depravity. Raskolnikov murders and he spends the novel trying to justify his crime. At various times throughout the novel he claims he did it to better humanity, to save his mother and sister, to provide himself with the resources he needed to be truly great, etc. Towards the end he tells Sonya that he did it for power to prove he was different from the ordinary man, but that he did it out of a heart that was evil and base. He says that he is a bad man, but then he says he committed no crime and is unrepentant. Even his confession he sees as the logical outworking of his failure to consistently follow his theories. And everytime you start to feel sorry for him and sympathise a wee bit with him, his diabolical pride raises its head and puts you off. At the end of the day Raskolnikov himself takes away every excuse you might make for him, and you are left with only the sinfulness of his heart.

- guilt. Despite all his justifications, Raskolnikov is tormented with guilt and anguish over what he has done. Romans 1 - the law of God is written on his heart - though he tries to suppress it with his theories - he knows what he has done is wrong, and he is driven to attempt to atone for it through good works, to justify it with his theories of the man above the law, and to seek a saviour in Sonya. He needs her tears, because he can not cry them himself - he can't admit he's wrong - he needs to share his suffering with her, because he can't admit he should be suffering. It's almost as though the entire story is about the war going on between his head and his heart - between his theories and his experience; his principles and practice.

- redemption. My favourite theme is the allegorical one I see in Sonya and Raskolnikov. Sonya loves Raskolnikov, even though he is eminently unlovable. Her desire is for him to repent and believe in Jesus Christ. He comes and confesses to her. She takes his suffering upon herself. She continues to love him and demonstrates it by her faithful following of him to Siberia. And finally, finally at the end of the book on the last two pages - he is resurrected through his love of her. Her love brings him from death to life. The theme of Lazarus being raised from the dead is mentioned several times in the book, and it ties in to this relationship. So, yes, despite her sinfulness, I think there is a picture of Christ and sinners going on here.

- the other end of suicide. There is a character very like Raskolnikov, an evil depraved character called Svidrigailov, who also does these random acts of kindness to atone for the guilt that torments him, who also justifies his evil ways. But unlike Raskolnikov, he rejects the influence of his 'saviour', Dounia (Raskolnikov's sister)and ends up killing himself. Made me think of the contrast between Peter and Judas.

There's so much there - it's really very good.

Not Faint Canaries, But Ambrosial

More on Donne...Yes, I finished him off over Christmas. He really is brilliant, and the Divine Meditations are excellent, full of themes of repentance, redemption, grace, and the glory of God. Good stuff. I would lean towards thinking his "change" was genuine. Now I'm on to Fydor Dostovesky and Crime and Punishment - but more on that later. For now, I'll leave you with my favourite Donne poem so far:

A Valediction Forbidding Mourning

As virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
"Now his breath goes," and some say, "No."

So let us melt, and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move ;
'Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.

Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears ;
Men reckon what it did, and meant ;
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.

Dull sublunary lovers' love
—Whose soul is sense—cannot admit
Of absence, 'cause it doth remove
The thing which elemented it.

But we by a love so much refined,
That ourselves know not what it is,
Inter-assurèd of the mind,
Care less, eyes, lips and hands to miss.

Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to aery thinness beat.

If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two ;
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if th' other do.

And though it in the centre sit,
Yet, when the other far doth roam,
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.

Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like th' other foot, obliquely run ;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.