A Letter from Robert Burns, in his own Language

January 25th, 2009 § 1 comment


I picked up a pris­tine copy of the Selected Let­ters of Robert Burns (OUP’s World Clas­sics edi­tion, pub­lished in 1953) last week in the superb Shel­ter Book­shop in Stock­bridge, Edin­burgh, for the princely sum of £2.

Burns, as we all know, wrote many of his poems in Scots. Sur­pris­ingly, how­ever, there is only one known exam­ple remain­ing of a let­ter writ­ten by him in the lan­guage of his coun­try­men. The let­ter is to William Nicol, Clas­sics Mas­ter at the High Schools of Edin­burgh, who was Burns’ com­pan­ion when he trav­elled around Scot­land col­lect­ing songs. Sent from Carlisle, the let­ter describes an encounter with two pretty women:

I met wi’ twa dink quines.…ane o’ them a son­sie, fine fodgel lass, baith braw and bonie; the tither was a clean-shankit, straught, tight, weel-far’d winch, as blythe’s a lin­t­white on a flow­erie thorn, and as sweet and modest’s a new blawn plum­rose in a hazle straw. They were baith bred to the main­ers by the beuk, and onie ane o’ them has as muckle smed­dum and rum­blegum­tion as the half o’ some Pres­bytries that you and baith ken. They play’s me sik a deevil o’ a shavie that I daur say if my hari­gals were turn’d out, ye wad see twa nicks i’ the heart o’ me like the mark o’ a kail-whittle in a castock.

As for a trans­la­tion into Eng­lish, this is my own attempt — I’ve no doubt many could offer a bet­ter one:

I met with two fine young women, one of them a cur­va­ceous, fine and buxom lass, both pretty and charm­ing; the other was a long-legged, slim, straight-talking, well-favoured a girl, as cheery as a lin­net on a flow­er­ing thorn, and as sweet and mod­est as a newly-blossomed prim­rose in a hazel wood. They were both well-bred and good-mannered, and both of them as spir­ited and level-headed as half of the parish coun­cils that you and I both know. They both played me such a devil of a trick that I dare say if my innards were turned out, you would see two nicks in my heart like the mark of a knife on a cab­bage stalk.

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