The Canongate Burns. Robert Burns

to the pampered sloth of the aristocracy. Indeed, as in ll. 89–90, such brutal work leads to a Swiftian vision of the bestialisation of the common people: ‘Lord man, our gentry care as little/For delvers, ditchers and sic cattle’.

      Burns’s strategy in the poem of course is to create through the dogs a kind of comic brio, which, at a primary level, disguises the poem’s incisive documentation and its anti-establishment values. Further, he does not do the ideologically obvious thing by creating an oppositional dialogue between the people’s collie and the master’s newly fashionable Newfoundland. Caesar is not so much a traitor to his class as a natural democrat who will put his nose anywhere as a possible prelude to even more intimate entangle- ments. It is he who really spills the beans about the condition of the working people and the lifestyle of their masters. In Luath’s speeches, especially ll. 103–38, we find the roots of Burns’s vision of the nobility of the common people which is to recur throughout his poetry though, at times, especially in ‘The Cotter’s Saturday Night’, somewhat questionably.

1 Cuchullin’s dog in Ossian’s Fingal, R.B.

2 The quarterly Circuit Court that travelled around the towns and counties of Scotland.

3 The title of Factor is that of an Estate manager, who, in the West of Scotland, cleared many ‘cottars’ from large estates during the late 18th century.

       Scotch Drink

      First printed in the Kilmarnock edition, 1786.

       Gie him strong drink until he wink,

       That’s sinking in despair;

       An’ liquor guid to fire his bluid,

       That’s prest wi’ grief an’ care:

       There let him bowse, and deep carouse,

       Wi’ bumpers flowing o’er,

       Till he forgets his loves or debts,

       An’ minds his griefs no more.

      Solomon’s Proverbs, xxxi. 6, 7. I.

      A paraphrase from Hugh Blair’s The Grave, p. 8.

      Let other Poets raise a frácas

      ‘Bout vines, an’ wines, an’ drucken Bacchus, drunken

      An’ crabbed names an’ stories wrack us, torment

      An’ grate our lug: vex, ears

      5 I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us, drink, barley

      In glass or jug.

      O thou, my MUSE! guid auld SCOTCH DRINK! good old

      Whether thro’ wimplin worms thou jink, winding, frisk

      Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink, froth over

      10 In glorious faem, foam

      Inspire me, till I lisp an’ wink,

      To sing thy name!

      Let husky Wheat the haughs adorn, hollows

      An’ Aits set up their awnie horn, oats, bearded

      15 An’ Pease an’ Beans, at een or morn,

      Perfume the plain:

      Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, blessing on thee

      Thou king o’ grain!

      On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, often, chews, cud

      20 In souple scones, the wale o’ food! soft, pick

      Or tumbling in the boiling flood

      Wi’ kail an’ beef; greens

      But when thou pours thy strong heart’s blood,

      There thou shines chief.

      25 Food fills the wame, an’ keeps us livin; belly

      Tho’ life’s a gift no worth receivin,

      When heavy-dragg’d wi’ pine an’ grievin;

      But oil’d by thee,

      The wheels o’ life gae down-hill, scrievin, go, careering

      30 Wi’ rattlin glee. noisy joy

      Thou clears the head o’ doited Lear, muddled knowledge

      Thou cheers the heart o’ drooping Care;

      Thou strings the nerves o’ Labor-sair, sore

      At’s weary toil;

      35 Thou ev’n brightens dark Despair

      Wi’ gloomy smile.

      Aft, clad in massy, siller weed, often clothed

      Wi’ Gentles thou erects thy head;

      Yet, humbly kind, in time o’ need,

      40 The poorman’s wine:

      His wee drap parritch, or his bread, drop, porridge

      Thou kitchens fine.

      Thou art the life o’ public haunts;

      But thee, what were our fairs and rants? without, merry-makings

      45 Ev’n goodly meetings o’ the saunts, saints

      By thee inspir’d,

      When, gaping, they besiege the tents,

      Are doubly fir’d.

      That merry night we get the corn in,

      50 O sweetly, then, thou reams the horn in!

      Or reekin on a New-Year-mornin steaming

      In cog or bicker, bowl, jug

      An’ just a wee drap sp’ritual burn in, small drop

      An’ gusty sucker! tasty sugar

      55 When Vulcan gies his bellys breath, gives, bellows

      An’ Ploughmen gather wi’ their graith, gear

      O rare! to see thee fizz an’ fraeth bubble and froth

      I’ the lugget caup! two-handled jug

      Then Burnewin comes on like Death blacksmith

      60 At ev’ry chap. stroke

      Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel: no, iron

      The brawnie, bainie, Ploughman-chiel, sturdy, boney, fellow

      Brings hard owrehip, wi’ sturdy wheel, over hip

      The strong forehammer,

      65 Till block an’ studdie ring an’ reel, anvil

      Wi’ dinsome clamour.

      When skirlin weanies see the light, squalling infants

      Thou maks the gossips clatter bright. makes, chatter, cheerfully

      How fumbling coofs their dearies slight; fools

      Wae worth the name! woe betide

      Nae Howdie gets a social night, no midwife

      Or plack frae them. coin

      When neebors anger at a plea, neighbours

      An’ just as wud as wud can be, mad/wild

      75 How easy can the barley-bree -brew

      Cement