{"id":7322,"date":"2024-01-25T23:46:43","date_gmt":"2024-01-25T23:46:43","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/?p=7322"},"modified":"2024-01-25T23:46:43","modified_gmt":"2024-01-25T23:46:43","slug":"tam-o-shanter-scotland-the-strange-ii","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/tam-o-shanter-scotland-the-strange-ii\/","title":{"rendered":"TAM O\u2019 SHANTER: SCOTLAND THE STRANGE II"},"content":{"rendered":"

Happy birthday to poet Robert Burns<\/strong> and author Willie Meikle<\/strong>! For two hundred and twenty three years, the faithful have celebrated the life and writings of poet Robert Burns (25 January 1759 \u2013 21 July 1796) on or around this day. And this day is also, as it happens, the birthday of Scottish* horror writer Willie Meikle, our inspiration for this series of peculiar Scottish supernatural tales and trivia, and who is still around, thank goodness.<\/p>\n

*\u2019Scottish\u2019 and \u2018Scots\u2019 are both permitted and respectable; \u2018Scotch\u2019 is frowned upon, except when referring to specific items, such as Scotch eggs, Scotch whisky and so on.<\/i><\/span><\/p>\n

Burns Nicht, or even Burns Day in some parts of the Scottish diaspora, is a time for haggis, whisky and verse, the traditional Burns Supper. And on the way to supper, we encounter a bridge, an abandoned church, ,<\/em> and Game of Thrones<\/em> \u2014 because we\u2019re like that\u2026<\/p>\n

Each in its cold hand held a light:<\/em>
\nBy which heroic Tom was able<\/em>
\nTo note upon the holy table,<\/em>
\nA murderer\u2019s bones, in gibbet-irons;<\/em>
\nTwo span-long, small, unchristened babies;<\/em>
\nA thief just cut from his hanging rope –<\/em>
\nWith his last gasp his mouth did gape;<\/em><\/p>\n

(‘Tam o’ Shanter’)<\/p>\n

Yesterday\u2019s story here, \u2018The Eyes of Doom\u2019, featured the small town of Arrochar, and if you drive for about an hour and half due south (trying not to drown in the Firth of Clyde), you will come to Alloway, the village where Robert Burns was born. Apart from its historical relevance as his birthplace, Alloway has two sites of of particular interest to us \u2014 the ruins of Alloway Kirk, and the Brig o’ Doon, a fifteenth century bridge located south of Alloway.<\/p>\n

\"tam<\/a><\/p>\n

Brig o’ Doon, built somewhere between 1420 and 1465, still stands, though it has been repaired many times. It was by riding madly over this bridge that Tam o\u2019 Shanter escaped the witches who pursued him, as described in the eponymous 1790 poem by Burns. Does its name sound familiar? Yes, that\u2019s where the 1947 Brigadoon<\/em> musical (and the subsequent 1954 film) got the title, though unlike Alloway, Brigadoon is a mysterious Scottish village that appears for only one day every 100 years \u2014 a common enough element of European folk-tales.<\/p>\n

The idea of a place cursed to have only a day or a few days in \u2018normal\u2019 space has become such a trope that it even occupies a whole Deep Space Nine<\/em> episode \u2014 \u2018Meridian\u2019. Jadzia Dax encounters a whole planet, albeit with no more than a small village-sized community which disappears for decades and is only in phase with the usual DS9 universe for short periods. And it involves a love story, as usual, though not quite as successful a one as in Brigadoon.<\/p>\n

\"tam<\/a><\/p>\n

Alloway Auld Kirk also still stands, but only as a well-kept ruin, and was built about a century later than the bridge. Robert Burns\u2019s father is buried there (under the surname \u2018Burnes\u2019), and it is this church which is central to \u2018Tam o\u2019 Shanter\u2019.<\/p>\n

Burns himself told a friend that he drew upon a folk tale told to him to construct the poem, a tale which began (in his words):<\/p>\n

\u201cOn a market-day, in the town of Ayr, a farmer from Carrick, and consequently whose way lay by the very gate of Alloway kirk-yard, in order to cross the River Doon, at the old bridge, which is almost two or three hundred yards farther on than the said old gate, had been detained by his business till by the time he reached Alloway it was the wizard hour, between night and morning.<\/i><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThough he was terrified with a blaze streaming from the kirk, yet as it is a well known fact, that to turn back on these occasions is running by far the greatest risk of mischief, he prudently advanced on his road. When he had reached the gate of the kirk-yard, he was surprised and entertained, thorough the ribs and arches of an old gothic window which still faces the highway, to see a dance of witches merrily footing it round their old sooty black-guard master, who was keeping them all alive with the power of his bagpipe.\u201d<\/i><\/span><\/p>\n

In 1910, it was recorded that Burns had a snuffbox made from wood out of the kirk ruins, on which was inscribed the marvellous verse:<\/p>\n

“Frae the oak that bare the riggin’,<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

O Alloway’s auld haunted biggin’,<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

Frae the thorn aboon the well,<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

Whaur Mungo’s mither hanged hersel’.”<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\"tam<\/a>
the kirk today<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

TAM O\u2019 SHANTER<\/h1>\n

So, to the poem itself, which is a grand horror tale of a man who observes a \u2018Witches\u2019 Sabbath\u2019, and is pursued by sundry hags until he finally wins free at the last minute, courtesy of the Brig o\u2019 Doon and his faithful mare, Maggie. That Game of Thrones<\/em> connection? James Cosmo<\/strong>, who played Jeor Mormont, the Old Bear, the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, has delivered perhaps the best aural version of \u2018Tam O\u2019Shanter\u2019 yet. Born James Ronald Gordon Copeland, he\u2019s been in too many film and TV series to list, everything from Dr Finlay\u2019s Casebook, UFO, Gladiator,<\/em> and the Chronicles of Narnia<\/em>, to His Dark Materials<\/em>. Here he is in very fine form:<\/p>\n

https:\/\/www.youtube.com\/watch?v=pU_Lbdy3Ud8<\/a><\/p>\n

And here is the full poem in Scots, as written. For those of the faint at heart, an English translation can be found here:<\/p>\n

http:\/\/www.robertburns.org.uk\/Assets\/Poems_Songs\/tamoshanter.htm<\/a><\/p>\n

When chapman billies leave the street,
\nAnd drouthy neibors, neibors, meet;
\nAs market days are wearing late,
\nAnd folk begin to tak the gate,
\nWhile we sit bousing at the nappy,
\nAn’ getting fou and unco happy,
\nWe think na on the lang Scots miles,
\nThe mosses, waters, slaps and stiles,
\nThat lie between us and our hame,
\nWhere sits our sulky, sullen dame,
\nGathering her brows like gathering storm,
\nNursing her wrath to keep it warm.<\/p>\n

This truth fand honest Tam o’ Shanter,
\nAs he frae Ayr ae night did canter:
\n(Auld Ayr, wham ne’er a town surpasses,
\nFor honest men and bonie lasses).<\/p>\n

O Tam! had’st thou but been sae wise,
\nAs taen thy ain wife Kate’s advice!
\nShe tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
\nA blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;
\nThat frae November till October,
\nAe market-day thou was na sober;
\nThat ilka melder wi’ the Miller,
\nThou sat as lang as thou had siller;
\nThat ev’ry naig was ca’d a shoe on
\nThe Smith and thee gat roarin’ fou on;
\nThat at the Lord’s house, ev’n on Sunday,
\nThou drank wi’ Kirkton Jean till Monday,
\nShe prophesied that late or soon,
\nThou wad be found, deep drown’d in Doon,
\nOr catch’d wi’ warlocks in the mirk,
\nBy Alloway’s auld, haunted kirk.<\/p>\n

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,
\nTo think how mony counsels sweet,
\nHow mony lengthen’d, sage advices,
\nThe husband frae the wife despises!<\/p>\n

But to our tale: Ae market night,
\nTam had got planted unco right,
\nFast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
\nWi reaming saats, that drank divinely;
\nAnd at his elbow, Souter Johnie,
\nHis ancient, trusty, drougthy crony:
\nTam lo’ed him like a very brither;
\nThey had been fou for weeks thegither.
\nThe night drave on wi’ sangs an’ clatter;
\nAnd aye the ale was growing better:
\nThe Landlady and Tam grew gracious,
\nWi’ favours secret, sweet, and precious:
\nThe Souter tauld his queerest stories;
\nThe Landlord’s laugh was ready chorus:
\nThe storm without might rair and rustle,
\nTam did na mind the storm a whistle.<\/p>\n

Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
\nE’en drown’d himsel amang the nappy.
\nAs bees flee hame wi’ lades o’ treasure,
\nThe minutes wing’d their way wi’ pleasure:
\nKings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,
\nO’er a’ the ills o’ life victorious!<\/p>\n

But pleasures are like poppies spread,
\nYou seize the flow’r, its bloom is shed;
\nOr like the snow falls in the river,
\nA moment white\u2014then melts for ever;
\nOr like the Borealis race,
\nThat flit ere you can point their place;
\nOr like the Rainbow’s lovely form
\nEvanishing amid the storm.\u2014
\nNae man can tether Time nor Tide,
\nThe hour approaches Tam maun ride;
\nThat hour, o’ night’s black arch the key-stane,
\nThat dreary hour he mounts his beast in;
\nAnd sic a night he taks the road in,
\nAs ne’er poor sinner was abroad in.<\/p>\n

The wind blew as ‘twad blawn its last;
\nThe rattling showers rose on the blast;
\nThe speedy gleams the darkness swallow’d;
\nLoud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow’d:
\nThat night, a child might understand,
\nThe deil had business on his hand.<\/p>\n

Weel-mounted on his grey mare, Meg,
\nA better never lifted leg,
\nTam skelpit on thro’ dub and mire,
\nDespising wind, and rain, and fire;
\nWhiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet,
\nWhiles crooning o’er some auld Scots sonnet,
\nWhiles glow’rin round wi’ prudent cares,
\nLest bogles catch him unawares;
\nKirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
\nWhere ghaists and houlets nightly cry.<\/p>\n

By this time he was cross the ford,
\nWhere in the snaw the chapman smoor’d;
\nAnd past the birks and meikle stane,
\nWhere drunken Charlie brak’s neck-bane;
\nAnd thro’ the whins, and by the cairn,
\nWhere hunters fand the murder’d bairn;
\nAnd near the thorn, aboon the well,
\nWhere Mungo’s mither hang’d hersel’.
\nBefore him Doon pours all his floods,
\nThe doubling storm roars thro’ the woods,
\nThe lightnings flash from pole to pole,
\nNear and more near the thunders roll,
\nWhen, glimmering thro’ the groaning trees,
\nKirk-Alloway seem’d in a bleeze,
\nThro’ ilka bore the beams were glancing,
\nAnd loud resounded mirth and dancing.<\/p>\n

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!
\nWhat dangers thou canst make us scorn!
\nWi’ tippenny, we fear nae evil;
\nWi’ usquabae, we’ll face the devil!
\nThe swats sae ream’d in Tammie’s noddle,
\nFair play, he car’d na deils a boddle,
\nBut Maggie stood, right sair astonish’d,
\nTill, by the heel and hand admonish’d,
\nShe ventur’d forward on the light;
\nAnd, wow! Tam saw an unco sight!<\/p>\n

Warlocks and witches in a dance:
\nNae cotillon, brent new frae France,
\nBut hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
\nPut life and mettle in their heels.
\nA winnock-bunker in the east,
\nThere sat auld Nick, in shape o’ beast;
\nA towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
\nTo gie them music was his charge:
\nHe screw’d the pipes and gart them skirl,
\nTill roof and rafters a’ did dirl.\u2014
\nCoffins stood round, like open presses,
\nThat shaw’d the Dead in their last dresses;
\nAnd (by some devilish cantraip sleight)
\nEach in its cauld hand held a light.
\nBy which heroic Tam was able
\nTo note upon the haly table,
\nA murderer’s banes, in gibbet-airns;
\nTwa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns;
\nA thief, new-cutted frae a rape,
\nWi’ his last gasp his gabudid gape;
\nFive tomahawks, wi’ blude red-rusted:
\nFive scimitars, wi’ murder crusted;
\nA garter which a babe had strangled:
\nA knife, a father’s throat had mangled.
\nWhom his ain son of life bereft,
\nThe grey-hairs yet stack to the heft;
\nWi’ mair of horrible and awfu’,
\nWhich even to name wad be unlawfu’.<\/p>\n

As Tammie glowr’d, amaz’d, and curious,
\nThe mirth and fun grew fast and furious;
\nThe Piper loud and louder blew,
\nThe dancers quick and quicker flew,
\nThe reel’d, they set, they cross’d, they cleekit,
\nTill ilka carlin swat and reekit,
\nAnd coost her duddies to the wark,
\nAnd linkit at it in her sark!<\/p>\n

Now Tam, O Tam! had they been queans,
\nA’ plump and strapping in their teens!
\nTheir sarks, instead o’ creeshie flainen,
\nBeen snaw-white seventeen hunder linen!\u2014
\nThir breeks o’ mine, my only pair,
\nThat ance were plush o’ guid blue hair,
\nI wad hae gien them off my hurdies,
\nFor ae blink o’ the bonie burdies!
\nBut wither’d beldams, auld and droll,
\nRigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,
\nLouping an’ flinging on a crummock.
\nI wonder did na turn thy stomach.<\/p>\n

But Tam kent what was what fu’ brawlie:
\nThere was ae winsome wench and waulie
\nThat night enlisted in the core,
\nLang after ken’d on Carrick shore;
\n(For mony a beast to dead she shot,
\nAnd perish’d mony a bonie boat,
\nAnd shook baith meikle corn and bear,
\nAnd kept the country-side in fear);
\nHer cutty sark, o’ Paisley harn,
\nThat while a lassie she had worn,
\nIn longitude tho’ sorely scanty,
\nIt was her best, and she was vauntie.
\nAh! little ken’d thy reverend grannie,
\nThat sark she coft for her wee Nannie,
\nWi twa pund Scots (’twas a’ her riches),
\nWad ever grac’d a dance of witches!<\/p>\n

But here my Muse her wing maun cour,
\nSic flights are far beyond her power;
\nTo sing how Nannie lap and flang,
\n(A souple jade she was and strang),
\nAnd how Tam stood, like ane bewithc’d,
\nAnd thought his very een enrich’d:
\nEven Satan glowr’d, and fidg’d fu’ fain,
\nAnd hotch’d and blew wi’ might and main:
\nTill first ae caper, syne anither,
\nTam tint his reason a thegither,
\nAnd roars out, \u201cWeel done, Cutty-sark!\u201d
\nAnd in an instant all was dark:
\nAnd scarcely had he Maggie rallied.
\nWhen out the hellish legion sallied.<\/p>\n

As bees bizz out wi’ angry fyke,
\nWhen plundering herds assail their byke;
\nAs open pussie’s mortal foes,
\nWhen, pop! she starts before their nose;
\nAs eager runs the market-crowd,
\nWhen \u201cCatch the thief!\u201d resounds aloud;
\nSo Maggie runs, the witches follow,
\nWi’ mony an eldritch skreich and hollow.<\/p>\n

Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou’ll get thy fairin!
\nIn hell, they’ll roast thee like a herrin!
\nIn vain thy Kate awaits thy comin!
\nKate soon will be a woefu’ woman!
\nNow, do thy speedy-utmost, Meg,
\nAnd win the key-stone o’ the brig;
\nThere, at them thou thy tail may toss,
\nA running stream they dare na cross.
\nBut ere the keystane she could make,
\nThe fient a tail she had to shake!
\nFor Nannie, far before the rest,
\nHard upon noble Maggie prest,
\nAnd flew at Tam wi’ furious ettle;
\nBut little wist she Maggie’s mettle!
\nAe spring brought off her master hale,
\nBut left behind her ain grey tail:
\nThe carlin claught her by the rump,
\nAnd left poor Maggie scarce a stump.<\/p>\n

Now, wha this tale o’ truth shall read,
\nIlk man and mother’s son, take heed:
\nWhene’er to Drink you are inclin’d,
\nOr Cutty-sarks rin in your mind,
\nThink ye may buy the joys o’er dear;
\nRemember Tam o’ Shanter’s mare.<\/p>\n

\n
\n

More SCOTLAND THE STRANGE in a couple of days. Previous article here:\u00a0<\/strong> <\/em><\/p>\n

SCOTLAND THE STRANGE: THE EYES OF DOOM<\/a><\/p><\/blockquote>\n