Caledonia's Bard

The world's poet.

'k, if not the world's poet, then he was the Bruce Springsteen or the Bob Seger of the working mans rhyme and life, the Bob Marley of melody, love and music, the Bob Dylan of civil disobedience, humanitarian, libertarian, equalitarian and freewill living.

Robert Burns was born 250 years ago on January 25th 1759 in a wee Ayrshire single room cottage that housed hens, livestock, a dirt floor, and thatched roof.

The cottage stands to this day, though it is better maintained than it would've been in his own day.

He was dirt poor in material life, but rich beyond riches internally, despite serious strife.

Burns wrote and spoke of and for the working man, and wrote using the everyday truncated vernacular of the country chouchter (the hard working farmer) [pronounced chooook'ter], and spoke of every universal plight, sight, feeling, sensation, lament, love, life or fright....but he did so in a truly unique and remarkable way - it was from one of the most unfathomably deep hearts to have beat in a human body.

His passion for life, his love, his humanity, his compassion, his love of laughter and joy for everything that simply is or was, was a different ken [knowing] altogether. One that isn't long for this life, but lives on for centuries for having honoured his innate love and talent, however impractical, in a pragmatic world that is fixed on collecting rent money, and working people to premature deaths, as was his own fathers fate who died at 24yrs of age.

Robert Burns died when he was 37 without a shilling to his name - literally.
Nevertheless, he was recognized as the Bard throughout Caledonia, and beyond.
He was granted the largest funeral in the history of Scotland at that time.

So, although he died utterly penniless, he was loved and respected by countless people.

Scotland itself is flinging open the doors throughout 2009 and inviting all ex-pats to return to honour Burns' life
on his 250ieth anniversary.

So says I....

raise yer snifter glass and wee dram,
and say Slange Va to the man.

tho' you be gone, yer words live oan
and will move emb'dy
wi'' heart enough to read them.

Slange va! Robert Burns

Cheers wee man, cheers.

Painting of Tam O' Shanter
by: Alexander Grant - my grandfather