Tyrants fall in every foe,
Liberty’s in every blow,
Let us do or dee!
As a matter of fact, Scots Wha Hae is one those poems which most people have heard about and few people have read. For this reason I print it in extenso and commend it to the consideration of the critical. Is it really noble, or marvellous, or inspiring? Would it pass muster as a new performance? Is it a whit the better, or sounder, or more convincing than God Save the King, which everybody cheerfully admits is not poetry? I, for one, hae me doots.
Like Artemus Ward and writers of “Wot-the-Orfis-Boy Finks” order, Burns owes much of his seeming inspiration and humour to an uncouth orthography. Put into decent English, many of his most vaunted lays amount to nothing at all. Indeed, practically the whole of the poetry which came from his pen could be compressed into a book of fifty pages. I do not say that much of the matter one would have to include in those fifty pages is not matter of an exceptional and extraordinary quality. Mr. Henley has told us that in the vernacular, Burns, at his best, touches the highest level; and with this pronouncement nobody who knows the difference between good writing and bad will quarrel. But I do assert that the best of Burns is not sufficient, either in quality or quantity, to justify the absurd fame which has been bestowed upon him by his countrymen. James I., whom the average Scotchman barely knows by name, was, taking him all in all, quite as good a poet as Burns. So was Barbour; so was Drummond of Hawthornden; and, I had almost added, so were Stevenson and Robert Buchanan. The question naturally arises, How comes it to pass that Burns who, excepting by a fluke, was always more or less of a middling poet, has come to rank as the finest thing in letters that Scotland ever produced? The answer to that question is simple enough. In spite of The Cotter’s Saturday Night, and two or three other pieces which are the delight and mainstay of the Scotch kirk-goer, Burns was undoubtedly the poet of licence and alcoholism. Also he was a ploughman.
Should humble state our mirth provoke!
What folly to misca’ that,
The sapling grows a stately oak,
Wi’ spreading shade and a’ that.
For a’ that and a’ that,