A bard's a bard for a' that
By ANDREW GILCHRIST
Andrew Gilchrist eavesdrops on Robert Burns
in Glasgow's George Square.
GLAD though I am that my weary body found a place
of rest, I hope Glasgow (which ne'er a town surpasses for rough, rude, and ready-witted
people) will pardon the reproaches of a poor poet. For life upon this pedestal
causes me more grief and pain at times than the ill Ayrshire weather in hay or
harvest ever did.
How I despair at those senseless asses who will
be trooping off to their Burns Suppers to toast my memory by filling their stomachs
and emptying their glasses. They dare attach my name to their blethering and blustering
when all the while women are barred from the proceedings. It's the wildest waste
of good whisky and they know fine well the sweetest hours that e'er I spent were
spent among the lasses. There! I remember every word I wrote -- it's no' called
the immortal memory for nothing! Without the presence of sweet and precious women,
a grace-drink to the immortal memory of Burns is no' worth a pin.
Forgive the ill temper of a weather-beaten bard.
I've been on the wagon for 197 years and am not yet used to it. That's a long,
harsh sentence for one as inclined to drink as I. All I have for oiling my throat
now is rain, which hardly inspires me to slur, wink, and sing -- and how it racks
my rheumatic bones.
Watching all the drunken blellums cavort about
the square at weekends puts me in mind of my old Ayrshire cronies and fair aggravates
my thirst. What a sight they are: the young full of love divine and gorging themselves
on foreign muck that would sicken a sow (where are the haggis-fed of today?);
the old full of ale and savouring the night as the one morsel of happiness they
enjoy in the conjugal yoke. They'll end up drowned in the Clyde sooner or later
and the most their sulky, sullen dames will mourn is the pay-packets that they
never once saw full. In truth, it's from scenes like these that old Scotia's grandeur
springs eternal.
I've a poor opinion of Hogmanay. I glower down
at the mirth and fun in the square as the dancers dance, the drinkers drink, and
the swearers swear -- until dreaded midnight when they start their cursed singing.
O Lord, it tears at my nerves with a bitter pang. Not one, not a single one of
the scoundrels, can sing Auld Lang Syne past the first verse, if that. What are
they taught in school? There are Italians living in Australia who can sing it
backwards standing on their heads. If only I'd travelled as far afield as that
song.
That Walter Scott has a good chuckle at my ragings
from his perch above the square. It's all right for him atop an 80ft pillar --
he'll never suffer the indignity of having a road cone stuck on his head, unless
students learn to fly. Still, it's better than being ignored. The old Tory's just
sour because no one ever looks at him but, as I keep telling him, no one ever
looks at his books either. My friends the pigeons told me he only got the square's
prime position on account of his surname.
The statue of Her Majesty Queen Victoria at the
edge of the square is my only female company and the wearisome hag is smugger
than ever nowadays, since the Tories started getting nostalgic for her era. Kings
may be blest but Victoria's glorious, as the Holy Willies force her values o'er
us! I declare, if she doesn't stop preaching I'll take a murd'ring pattle and
chase her to the Clyde, whose running waters she probably canna cross. I'll rip
off her horse's grey tail and gag her with it.
How I could wail and weep at the lack of a decent
monument to women in this land. It strikes me this city would sooner erect a statue
to a cartoon character. If they're short of bronze I'll gladly donate my left
ear. Then I'll no' hear the din of that musical nativity scene that comes to give
the square a 24-hour carol service every Christmas. Service! It's more like a
complete overhaul. There are surely better ways of raising money than torture.
I must confess, though made of bronze, I am still
at times afflicted with fleshly lust. The bonnie lassies today, so plump and strapping
in their teens, enrich my very eyes. To see them is to love them, especially in
the spunky summer months when they reveal their best linen and plenty more besides.
Who can blame the men for leering? By now I've learnt to content myself with the
attentions of tourists finishing off camera film, but o, how my bronze breast
aches for ae fond kiss from a supple wench. Though why should they look at an
old man? I'm 235 and haven't changed my clothes in years.
Up here Burns has tethered time and tide. I've
seen so many changeful years and in this unmoving body I still love to madness
and feel to torture. So when next you're in the square, my friend, spare a thought
for a bronze bard. Give me your hand and we'll tak a cup o' kindness, or something
stronger, for auld you-know-what.
Thu 20-Jan-1994
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