Burns the Lover

 Ma mither aye minds me tae keep ma ain counsel, sae ye willna be hearing ony gossip frae me. Hairst time is busy eneugh onyways, nae time tae be staunin aroon clatterin. Ahve tae walk oer tae Mount Oliphant tae help wi the hairst this day’s morn, afore the sun is oot his bed. Aye, an the walk back i the derk o evening tae. But mind, ahm nae my lane the walk back. Young Rab frae Mount Oliphant aye taks me hame.

It’s the custom heareabouts tae partner lad an lass thegither at hairst time, working the field at ane time. Rab taks the weeder-clips an ah walk ahint him gaitherin the stalkies. It’s simple eneugh but hard efter a while. Ah cover ma hair wi a cloot tae keep the stour frae it, but ane time we flung oursels oan the foggage tae tak a bite o summat, twa three curls brust oot an Rab leans oer tae tuck them back in trigly. Ah near turnit red wi the shame o it but luikin aroon naebody hae mindit it. Ah ate ma bit bread an Missus Burns’ fine yowe-milk kebbuck whiles Rab sate on a patch o sedge grinnin lik a loon an slappin his hauns on his breeks.

They say he’s a queer-lik lad wi mony fancies, fond o his faither’s buiks an trampin lang hours his lane oer the fields. He disna mind takin time oot tae see me hame tho, his lang legs stridin ahead an ah have tae maist rin tae keep up wi him. An yet he slaes his pace ance we get near the hoose an looks laggardly, draggin his heels i the dirt. Ah times hae tae gie him a push tae be aff.

Ah nivir kenned a lad be sae blate an bashfu afore - maist o them ainly want aye thing an are nae best pleased when ye say them nay. But Rab he taks ma haun sae doucely an pluckit oot the thristle burrs an nettle stings frae ma fingers. An when ah sing for the sheer joy o the sun an the day ah hear him whistle sae sweetly in tune wi me. He says he kens o the laird’s son wha wrote the words tae the tune, an he can dae as weel if no better. But I dinna mind much o it, lads are aye boastin this or that. ‘Fair words butter nae parsnips’, as ma mither aye says.

He’s an unco chiel richt eneugh. An ah’ll tell ye a tale as shaws it. It was near eneugh the derk o the day, wi the sun glimmering oot oer the trees an the shadows stretching lang oer the field. We’d had a weary day o it an I was fain tae be aff awa hame. But there wis ane patch o bear-corn left an a big burr-thristle i the midst o it, a stalk near as thick as ma wrist, tapped wi a croun o prickles. Rab he casts the weeder-clips aside an stauns in a maze starin at this muckle thristle.

 Nell, he says, Nell, ah canna touch the thristle. 

Why no? (I wis fair snappish wi him, fer the wanting tae be aff)

It’s the symbol of Scotland, he says, an it’s richt dear tae me just this moment.

Like ah said - an unco chiel. But ah think ah love him aw the same.

Hairst - harvest

Clattering - chattering

Weeder-clips - shears for weeding

Ahint - behind

Cloot - a piece of cloth, a rag

Foggage - grass for winter grazing

Brust - burst

Trigly - neatly, tidily

Yowe - ewe

Sedge - rushes

Loon - rascal

Breeks - breeches, trousers

Laggardly - to loiter or fall behind

Blate - shyness, sheepishness, modest

Doucely - sweetly

Thristle - thistle

Kens - knows

Unco - strange

Chiel - a young

 man

Fain - glad

Bear-corn - barley

Burns the Fermer

 Ah wis a puir faitherless lad fae Lochlie, an Maister Burns brocht me wi him when they cam here tae Mossgiel Ferm. He wis aye luikin oot for me, even hefting me up oan his shouthers ane day as we cam hame frae the field. Ah wis the wee ane of all the lads on the ferm - the runt of the pack, the ane that aye got his erse kicked in a fecht. But still, ah wis a richt pawkie wee lad, an gleg wi it. Ah kenned if ah ettled tae fin ma place ah’d need tae fin summat mair nor fechting tae win the day. 

Sae ane nicht ance aw us lads were in the loft oer the stable where we slept, ah twistit ma lips an pullit unco faces. ‘Girnin Davie’ they callit me, an lauched themsels til the tears cam frae their een. I wis cuttin sic a caper and loupin oer the wooden boards that the auld yin doon the stair cam up tae tell us aff fer makin sic a din - an on the Lord’s Day tae! 

We aw were thrashit fer oor ain guid by the maister, but efter it, he wis richt kind and said we ainly needit summat tae keep us oot o mischief. Sae that wis how it startit that I learnt the English frae him. The ither twa were na gey gleg an ettled tae be awa, but ah wis jist fine wi it. 

Ance a week, on a Sunday nicht, efter prayers, Maister Burns aye lets me stay doon frae the loft an teaches me tae speak sae fine like ony gentleman. He hears me read aloud frae his buiks an leaves me tae study oer them whiles he swings back on his chair an writes. He writes poems an is even having a buik o his ain published. He tellit me he’s written a poem about all o us here at Mossgiel, an ah get a mention in it tae. ‘Wee Davock’ he calls me, an a like that even better nor ‘Girnin Davie’.

Aye, now that I can speak the English I have grand plans. Nae mair fechtin fer wee Davie Hutcheson fae Lochlie! I still have a guid Scots tongue in my head though and can use it tae. Ane o the other lads, Willie Patrick, wis aye at me fer liking the buik learning mair than fechtin in the yaird. But I callit him a lang-leggit loon wi a face lik bleared sowans, an Gaudsman John near brak his breeks wi lauchin an wouldna let Willie say a word agin me ony mair that nicht, nor fecht me neither. 

Instead he tuik us baith aside an tellit us o what happened that day on the field while he was gauding the horses for Maister Burns, wha was mindin the ploo. They cam upon a wee mousie that rin oot o its bield an Maister Burns callit tae John tae stoppit the horses an turned the ploo aside. He widna move on til he’d seen the mousie rin awa oer the riggs towards the foggage around the edge o the field.

‘He’ll be makin a rhyme on it, nae doot,’ ah said, an the ither twa lauched at the thocht o a poem for a wee mousie. But I gat the last lauch fer Maister Burns read oot some verses o it to John and John said he couldna understaun near hauf o it.

Pawkie - wily

Gleg - quick-witted, smart

Ettled - intended

Summat - something

Unco - strange

Girnin - showing the teeth, grimacing

Lauched - laughed

Een - eyes

Loupin - to dart, to dash

Yin - one

Sic - such

Loon - rogue, rascal

Bleared - watery, thin

Sowans - dish made by soaking oats in water.

Gaudsman - one who guides the horses for the plough

Breeks - breeches, trousers

Bield - shelter, nest

Foggage - grass for winter grazing