What I always found weird about my visits to Scotland (and Ireland, too) was the willingness of the natives to do down their own cultural brilliance and to deny that they've ever made any great contributions to civilization. At a musicology gathering in Glasgow some years ago, here is the toast I made at a Burn's Nicht supper:
The best harpists, singers, fiddlers, pipers and drummers come from blessed Alba, as everyone knows. Here is a toast to the poet whose wit, daring revelry and human soul preserved and preserves their memories.
The Scots in attendance told me I was a fool to take it seriously. Really? It's almost as though the Scots subscribe wholeheartedly to the Sassenach caricatures. I don't know if independence would right this - maybe not. Maybe in those far northern latitudes, folks are just not getting enough sun, and a dark, self-loathing, Ingmar Bergman sort of deranged depression has set in. Joking aside, I hope Scots view their choices as more than bollocks or shite.
The amazing longing, that peculiar Scottish tenderness, in this melody and poem, put together by Robert Burns, is truly astounding:
A tender poem about the creatures of the landscape, and against hunting for sport, a sensibility we could use (written in the
18th century, btw):
