Showing posts with label Tam o Shanter. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tam o Shanter. Show all posts

Happy Birthday, Robert Burns!

 

'Ae Spring' - Illustration for Tam o' Shanter,
by my husband, Alan Lees

Later on today, I'll be toasting the Immortal Memory of Robert Burns at a small, private Burns Supper. This year, I thought it would be nice to say something about Tam O' Shanter. Here it is. 

Once upon a time, a young lad called Robert Burns (probably Rab in Ayrshire, occasionally Rabbie, Robin too, but never Robbie) was fascinated by the folk tales he heard from his mother and other relatives. This would be when he was living in the cottage in Alloway, till he was seven, and then when they moved to Mount Oliphant, not too far away. He would have filed them away in his memory. They would have fired his youthful imagination.

Later, as a teenager, he was sent to Kirkoswald to learn a form of practical mathematics associated with surveying. He stayed just outside the village, either at or close to Ballochneil Cottage where his mother’s brother lived, and walked into the village to study. With his companions, he would also walk to Turnberry Shore and Maidens, where he met Douglas Graham of Shanter farm, and his formidable wife Helen McTaggart who may or may not have been models for Tam and his wife Kate in the poem.

This was also where he heard stories of smugglers and witches, especially witches who could raise storms to wreck sailing ships. Witchcraft was still a serious allegation in 18th century Scotland, although not quite so disastrous as it had been less than a hundred years earlier. He went out in a small fishing 'coble' and was as sick as a dog. (Few of his later poems are about the sea.) Smuggling, the contraband trade, was active all along the Carrick coast of Ayrshire, and young Rab would drink his fair share of French brandy. He also discovered flirtation with Margaret – Peggy – Thomson, who was only 13 to the poet’s 16. 

He may even have thought about a poem concerning witches and drunkenness, but he certainly wasn’t ready to write it yet.

Cue forward some years. Our Rab is all grown up. The family had moved from Mount Oliphant to Lochlea - ruinously for the poet's father. Not long after his premature death, Robert and his brother Gilbert took the tenancy of Mossgiel outside Mauchline (where our delicious milk now comes from) and moved there with the rest of the family. 

In 1786 he publishes the first edition of his poems, plans to go to Jamaica, but goes to Edinburgh instead, where he rapidly becomes a celebrity, especially among the upper echelons of society, the ‘nabbery’ as they are still occasionally called here. Meanwhile, he is in an on-off relationship with Jean Armour, the eldest daughter of a Mauchline building contractor. She has already given birth to his twins of whom only one child now survives, a boy called Robbie. He is living at Mossgiel with his father’s family.

By 1788, Jean is heavily pregnant with a second set of twins and is staying at Tarbolton Mill, with the miller Willie Muir and his wife, sent there by Jean’s exasperated parents in a vain attempt to avoid the town gossip.

The poet arrives from Edinburgh ostensibly to see his family and his son at Mossgiel. But he can’t escape the responsibility of Jean. I always have the feeling that Willie, who had been a friend of the poet’s father, and was a good man, gave him a serious dressing down. He found accommodation for Jean in Mauchline, a room in the house belonging to a doctor friend, and paid for it – before behaving very badly, telling Jean she had no claim on him and heading back to Edinburgh in a hurry.

When the second set of twins were born prematurely, and died soon after, he suddenly reappeared in Mauchline, thoroughly penitent and asking her to marry him. The sooner the better. We don’t really know what made him change his mind so suddenly and so comprehensively. A matter of days previously, he had been swearing undying love to Nancy McLehose - Clarinda - in Edinburgh and calling poor Jean nasty names.

I think the inconvenient truth was that he loved her. He couldn't help himself. Besides, they had never not been married, ever since he had asked her and she had agreed, during her first pregnancy. It was a legal marriage in Scotland at the time, whether paperwork was involved or not. I think he knew that. Besides, Nancy was never going to be a farmer’s wife. Or his wife at all, given that she was already married to somebody else.

Rab had taken on the tenancy of beautiful Ellisland near Dumfries. He was supervising the building of a new farmhouse there, missing Jean very much, and not afraid to tell her so, in a scant handful of enchantingly domestic letters about linen and cheese as well as love, while travelling back and forth on horseback to Mauchline whenever he could. She would walk along the road to meet him. Jean was his real 'muse' - the genuine love of his life. He acknowledges it himself. 'My muse maun be thy bonnie self' he wrote in a wonderful song for Jean called O Were I On Parnassus Hill. He had confessed that he had to be 'in love' to write a love poem or song. But there is all the difference in the world between being fleetingly 'in love' and genuinely loving somebody through thick and thin. 

Later, when the couple were living at Ellisland, he met English antiquary and collector of folk tales, Captain Francis Grose, along the road at Friar’s Carse (now a hotel). The two got on, even though Grose was a good deal older than Burns. Grose was collecting traditional stories and Rab had learned them at his mother’s knee. He sent the folklorist summaries of three ghostly tales about Alloway’s old ruined kirk, stories he knew from his childhood, as well as tales of witchcraft and witches summoning storms, tales that he had heard at Maidens all those years before.

So it was at Ellisland in 1790 that – encouraged by Grose - he wrote Tam o’ Shanter, one of his most famous and well-loved poems. The story goes that he was working on it as he walked beside the Nith at Ellisland. He used to go fishing in the river there, wearing a kind of Davy Crockett hat, a rakish fur hat with a tail. There’s a green path there too, and you can still walk along it. He was reciting bits of the poem to himself and laughing out loud, so that the farm workers overhearing him went to ask Jean if her husband had taken leave of his senses. She reassured them that he hadn’t – he was just in an imaginative world of his own.

It was also round about this time that a female poet called Janet Little arrived at Ellisland to find Bonnie Jean ‘drown’d in tears’ as she put it. Only a little while before Jean went into labour with a son, Ann Park, the barmaid at the Globe Inn in Dumfries had given birth to the poet's daughter, Betty. A bit of a reality check for romantic Janet and a slap on the face for Jean. 

But Jean was quite capable of seizing a ladle and – as her husband described it in one of his many letters - ‘laying about her as lustily as a reaper from the corn ridge’ if domestic chaos involving children and dogs and faithless poets became too much for her. Later, Jean would take Betty into her household when Ann couldn't look after her, bringing the child up as her own and loving her dearly. The two would remain close for the whole of Jean's life which should tell us something about the quality of the woman. 

It’s not hard to imagine that Rab may have had his own formidable, wonderful wife in mind, quite as much as Helen McTaggart, when he was writing about Tam. 

O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise, As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice!

The poem is a work of genius – wise and witty and real because it is stitched into a familiar landscape and concerns people that the poet knew well, and loved dearly. 

We still love Tam and his creator for it.

Meanwhile, you can read Jean's story - and of course the story of the charming husband she loved her whole life long - in my novel, The Jewel. It's available on Amazon as a paperback or an eBook.   And if you want to know more about the real relationship between the poet and his wife, there's a little book called For Jean, that I put together at the same time as the novel, a collection of poems, songs and letters by Robert Burns, written for and about his wife. 



   

 

 

 


Tam O' Shanter

Ae Spring, by my husband, Alan Lees

Back in June 1996, BBC R4 broadcast my play on the writing of Tam O' Shanter : the narrative, comic poem by our greatest national poet, Robert Burns. That was back when I was writing plenty of radio drama, and at that time, was lucky enough to work with an international award winning producer/director, the late Hamish Wilson. The play was commissioned to mark the 200th anniversary of the death of the poet, on 21st July 1796. 

A few days ago, a friend flagged up to me on Facebook that R4 Extra were broadcasting repeats of the production. It's still available online, and will be for the next 25 days, which I'm pleased about since we were in the middle of a prolonged Storm Eowyn powercut at the time! 

I wanted to evoke the older Burns, who seems to have been inspired to write the poem circa 1790, for the second volume of Francis Grose's Antiquities of Scotland. This was when he, his wife Jean and his family were living at Ellisland Farm, not far from Dumfries. The poet was farming and working as an exciseman, all while writing and remaining, by all accounts, a loving father.

I also wanted to look back to the inspiration behind the poem, when a very young Rab spent time in Kirkoswald, not far from his mother's home town of Maybole, learning 'mensuration' or mathematics, but also walking across to the nearby Carrick coast with his friend Willie Niven. It was there that he met Douglas Graham of Shanter Farm, about half a mile from the village of Maidens. Duncan was the model for Tam. He had a formidable wife, and a drinking crony called John Davidson - 'Souter Johnnie', the Kirkoswald shoemaker, whose house you can still visit today.

Essentially, this is a tale of a very drunken Tam setting off home to Shanter Farm after a successful market day in Ayr, riding his 'grey mare Meg'. Increasingly beset by stormy weather and the fear of ghosts and goblins, he is heading for the River Doon, that marks the border between Kyle and Carrick when ...

'glimmering thro’ the groaning trees,
Kirk-Alloway seem’d in a bleeze;
Thro’ ilka bore the beams were glancing;
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.—


Drunkenly determined to investigate, Tam advances on the ruins, only to see a dance of witches, 'rigwoodie hags' with the devil himself, Auld Nick, playing the pipes to accompany them. Unfortunately for Tam (or his horse) one of the witches, Nannie, is young and pretty, dancing madly in a very short shift, a 'cutty-sark', leaving little to Tam's imagination. He is so excited that he takes leave of his senses altogether and cries out 'weel done Cutty-sark!' whereupon - as the poet tells us - 'in an instant all was dark.' 

The 'hellish legion' sallies forth to chase him. 'In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin'. But witches and warlocks dare not cross running water and 'Maggie' is a noble steed. They 'win the key-stane of the brig' just as the athletic Nannie catches hold of Meg's tail. 

'The carlin claught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.'

It is a wonderful poem: witty and wise and perfectly structured, with a use of language second to none. I have always loved Burns's poetry and have written a good deal about him and his wife over the years - but I still think this poem is my favourite. 

In writing the play, I was keen to weave in some of the folkloric inspiration behind the poem, stories that the poet would have heard at his mother's knee and that his wife too would have been well aware of during her Mauchline childhood. 

I also wanted to evoke the poem's composition - not in the single inspiration that later commentators invented - but as a creative process. The poet clearly enjoyed himself, and it shows in the perfection and wit of the completed poem. 

The cast included, among various talented Scottish actors, Ayrshire lad Liam Brennan as Rab, Gerda Stevenson with a perfect voice to evoke Jean Armour's 'wood notes wild' - and an appearance by Billy Boyd who went on to play Pippin in The Lord of the Rings. You can hear Liam reading the whole poem, beautifully, at the very end of the play. 

Like all Hamish's productions, it was a happy project. He was skilful, talented, caring and kindly. 

As a postscript to this, you may want to read a little more about Hamish himself. After his death, I wrote a piece about him for this blog, later republished on the Sutton Elms Blog. Sadly the BBC decided that this award winning producer was surplus to requirements and made him redundant. Among much else, he had been a juror and jury chairman in the Prix Italia, Prix Futura Berlin and the Prix Europa - but he wore his distinction lightly. Perhaps too lightly for the BBC that jettisoned him as casually as they have jettisoned so many others over the years - myself included, some years later. My last radio production was in 2007. We were, as somebody pointed out to me much later, 'tainted by experience.' 

It turned out to be a good thing for me. After an initial period of mourning for the radio career I once had, I moved on to many other enjoyable and successful creative projects - and a writing career is always a switchback. Not quite so for Hamish, sadly. I've often thought that if these things had happened just a few years later, he would have been able to go it alone, much as so many writers like myself do nowadays. He was one of the best and I still miss him.

Meanwhile, if you can visit Ellisland, probably the most atmospheric of all the places associated with the poet, don't forget to walk along the River Nith, where the poet walked and remembered his youth and imagined  the first drafts of the tale of Tam o' Shanter. You might like to listen to the play as well! You can find it here for the next three weeks or so: https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/m0027csp


River Nith near Ellisland