I HAE es picter in ma heid o oor National Bard hemm’t in for wikks on eyn wytin for the neist ship tae dock at the herbor wi a cargo o saut, only tae fin the cooncil his nae siller left tae pey for’t bit even so, gritters aa sell’t in a desperate attempt tae balance the beuks. Syne ye daurna tak yer car oot, tyres connach’t wi yet anither hole on the road.
Fit a mineer an forrit-plannin aa tae scutter. A business risk that hid tae be teen we’re tell’t an at intae doric means, as I read somewye, ‘Onything that can mak an erse o fit it’s suppos’t tae dee’.
Weel awyte, bit wi the anniversary o the birth o Robbie Burns blaw’n in wi a blast o Januar win back in 1759, I thocht on a poem that identifees wi aa you hoosebound craiturs es fylie back.
Ye see I hae been socht bi BBC Radio Scotland tae record my favourite Burns poem - weel as lang as anither radio presenter hisna got in afore me - an thocht on ‘Epistle To Davie, A Brother Poet’, screiv’t at the hecht o a stormy winter far ‘winds frae aff Ben Lomond blaw an bar the doors wi drivin snaw’.
I see him nae bless’t nor damn’t wi mobile phones, radio an TV tae rub saut inta the wounds, sattlin doon tae a reever o a fire an oot wi the pen an paper tae scrawl, nae in the best o humour, his thochts on the warl roon aboot him an foo it wis hardly in a body’s pow’r tae keep at times frae being sour to see how things are shar’d.
Fit’s new, bit he begins tae get the venom oot o’s system wi time tae reflect - sairly lackin the day - an oot comes een o’s best lines wi:-
If happiness hae not her seat an centre in the breast
We may be wise or rich or poor but never can be blest.
I wis mindit tee o the programme Marion Anderson an her Band pit thegither for’s on BBC Radio Scotland at ye can hear the nicht, pickin gems fae the Burns repertoire an foo tellin is the bard’s music alang wi the wirds.
When to the trembling string the dance gaed thro the lighted ha’.
Hooiver, as the dee’in embers keepit me company, I wis tae think on the loss tae faimilies an freens ower es last feow days an I canna lat es ging by athoot a menchin tae een or twa that hae lichtit up my life ower the eers.
Thou layest them, with all their cares in everlasting sleep
Ye mabe saw on TV the presentations at Fort George bi The Prince O Wales o the Elizabeth Cross posthumously awardit tae Sgt Millar and acceptit by his Dad - neen ither than that great dance band drummer Gus Millar an it hits aa the harder fin ye ken them that’s left.
I thoom’t the pages an there wis ‘The Sodger’s Return’.
Remember he’s the country’s stay in day and hour of danger
Wi the Burns’ beuk drappin oot o the fingers, the eyelids beginnin tae steek, I myn’t tee o the passin o the Rev John Dickson, ma meenister eence at Echt, an infrequent bit welcome veesitor tae wir hoose here at the Brig o Don faur him an Esma enjoy’t mony a tune at the piano an me the craick.
Then there wis John Stewart that piping stalwart o the Heilan Games fa did sae much tae encourage the young tae haud on tae the tradition he loo’d sae dearly.
Lastly there wis Bill McLaren the consummate commentator an I’ll nae forget in a hurry ma veesit tae him in’s hoose, a humblin experience.
The link that aa were as Burns wid o likit, brithers be for aa that.
So the toast tae Burns an tae absent freens.
Bring tae me a pint o wine
And fill it in a silver tassie.
Tae Robert Burns.
See ye neist wikkeyn.