The newspaper, the Scotsman, ran a piece the other day about how the officials in Edinburgh are hoping that Robert Burns, the Scottish national poet who died in 1796, might be able to get the beleaguered region out of the economic troubles that are plaguing that country, and every other country, too.
You see, Jan. 25 is the 250th anniversary of Burns' birth. There's always a party for Bobbie Burns, but perhaps the authorities are counting on the wish that this one -- a really big one -- might bring the tourists into the Highlands, and lure some cash into the country. There's an irony to this. Burns left his family, and a brood of illegitimate children destitute when he died. Now that I think about it, Thomas Jefferson died broke, too, and he left a legacy of kids without his name, and without a penny. There were no big speaking fees in those days, I guess. Both Burns and Jefferson loved their respective countries. They were both farmers, they were statesmen, and they both glorified the written word in the most glorious ways. They loved music, too. And they sure loved women. Both Burns and Jefferson would be pleased to provide relief to this economic crisis -- even if they've been dead for all this time.
Oddly, Thomas Jefferson observed, "The system of banking [is] a blot left in all our Constitutions, which, if not covered, will end in their destruction. I sincerely believe that banking institutions are more dangerous than standing armies; and that the principle of spending money to be paid by posterity ... is but swindling futurity on a large scale."
When I see the scandalously reprehensible behavior of the California legislators who will not bring a budget to the table as California sinks into the morass, I'm also reminded of Burns. He despised prevarication, and dumb vanity. (The words of Will Rogers come to mind, too: "If stupidity got us into this mess, then why can't it get us out?") Burns' last days were miserable, he spent them working as a tax collector, "an exciseman." He hated it. He hated the fact that he could not support a wife and five children on this sad salary. There was no bailout package for him. He was only 37 when he died. "A Man's a Man for a' that, for a' that an a' that." And that was that.
By the way, if you ever get a chance to attend a Burns Night supper (Jan. 25), you might want to give it a go. The centerpiece of the party is the haggis, the humblest of meat dishes, elevated to immortality by Burns' great poetic homage, To A Haggis. You remember it: "Fair fa' your, honest, sonsie face/Great chieftain o' the puddin-race."
Burns had a genius for lifting the prosaic to epic stature. By describing an ordinary mouse, "Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie," he managed to frame a metaphor for human frailty: "The best laid schemes of mice and men/Gang aft-agley."
Burns' works included Auld Lang Syne, My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose, and hundreds of other songs and poems. They haven't been out of print since 1786, translated into 50 languages. That's a record that even Danielle Steel would envy. Don't be afraid of the haggis, even after I describe it. It's actually a sheep's stomach filled with oatmeal, some spicy sausage and ground sheep organs. Look on the bright side: oat bran still gets a lot of good press these days. Good for the heart, you know. Many cultures have produced their own form of haggis. The ancient Greeks had theirs -- it's even mentioned in The Clouds of Aristophanes. But it's the oatmeal, you see, that gives the Scottish haggis its distinctive flavor.
But more distinctive and certainly more encouraging is the tradition that haggis must be served with a glass of good Scotch whisky -- or maybe two -- to the accompaniment of a bag piper. Or a piper in the bag.
Burns gives the Scots a source of pride, and that has taken a big hit lately amid all of the apprehension and the humiliations that surround a busted economy. The best laid schemes of mice and men have not only gone awry -- they're all over the place right now. So let's have a party. I hear the people in Iceland are also pretty depressed. They can provide the ice, so let's be sure to invite them, too.
Bruce Bellingham also writes for the SF Northside. He can often be seen meandering around the Marina. Yes, it's true he is a Meanderthal. You may even catch him haggling over haggis in the meat section at the Marina Super. Drop Bellingham a line at bruce@northsidesf.com
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