Burnsing Bright

So, a canty 250th birthday tae ye, bonnie lad Rabbie, ye big pile o blethering, philandering tosh that ye are!

And happy Burns Night to the rest of you.  Apparently, far more Burns Suppers take place in England than in Scotland now – read here for the experience of a London-based Scot at a ceilidh attended almost exclusively by Sassenachs.  It's enough to make you smile.

And here's my contribution.  I'm not a big fan of Robert Burns as a person, but this is a really beautiful love song that I heard for the first time this week.  It's sung by an old wife to her faithful husband:

John Anderson my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonie brow was brent;
But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snaw,
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson my jo!

John Anderson my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither,
And monie a cantie day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither;
Now we maun totter down, John,
And hand in hand we'll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo!

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