Come Sing Tae Me The Auld Scotch Sangs

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Today I woke up HERE and NOW and in SUNNY CALIFORNIA and WOO HOO USA! Up and at ’em! First, read the news headlines …. By the end of my first cup of coffee I was ready to escape right back to Scotland — a proud country with a proud heritage. And it keeps its own songs alive, with practically no help from anyone, among the hearts of its own people. They sing these songs even today, in pubs and parties and schools all over Scotland, even when they know — BECAUSE they know — that both sides in whatever bloody battle they’re singing about were equally daft. Adaptive re-use? The Long View…?

The Toun Hoose of the Lairds of Cockpen in Castlehill, renovated by Patrick Geddes into the Outlook Tower for urban study.

First, the hilarious “Laird o’ Cockpen,” by saucy Lady Nairne, deftly done by Anne Lorne Gillies.

The laird o’ Cockpen, he’s proud an’ he’s great,
His mind is ta’en up wi’ the things o’ the State;
He wanted a wife, his braw house to keep,
But favour wi’ wooin’ was fashious to seek.

Down by the dyke-side a lady did dwell,
At his table head he thocht she’d look well,
M’Leish’s ae dochter o’ Clavers-ha’ Lea,
A penniless lass wi’ a lang pedigree.

His wig was weel pouther’d and as gude as new,
His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue;
He put on a ring, a sword, and cock’d hat,
And wha could refuse the laird wi’ a’ that?

He took the grey mare, and rade cannily,
And rapp’d at the yett o’ Clavers-ha’ Lea;
‘Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben, –
She’s wanted to speak to the laird o’ Cockpen.’

Mistress Jean she was makin’ the elderflower wine;
‘An’ what brings the laird at sic a like time?’
She put aff her apron, and on her silk goun,
Her mutch wi’ red ribbons, and gaed awa’ doun.

An’ when she cam’ ben, he bowed fu’ low,
An’ what was his errand he soon let her know;
Amazed was the laird when the lady said ‘Na’,
And wi’ a laigh curtsie she turned awa’.

Dumfounder’d was he, nae sigh did he gie,
He mounted his mare – he rade cannily;
An’ aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen,
She’s daft to refuse the laird o’ Cockpen!

Next the immortal Annie Laurie, sung by the immortal Jean Redpath, on Prairie Home Companion. A bit poignant: she invited the Americans to sing along, none knew it. You do, though, sing along.

Noel at his most droll. Enroll:

“There with ma honey, ma bonny Hieland laddie, in his wee-bitty kilt, of Caledonian plaidie…”

Crank up the volume for two from the Corries. First, ‘Bonnie Dundee’ takes the side of the Viscount Dundee, Lord Claverhouse (Clavers in Scots), the King’s Man, as he rides out from Edinburgh through the West Port (“the bells they ring backwards…) to put down the Jacobite uprising. [Note that the pert lassie who refused the Laird o’ Cockpen was a poor relation, who lived at Clavers-ha-Lea, the country estate.] Dundee kicked the Highlanders in the sporran that day, but Dundee himself was killed right at the moment of victory — a Cavalier martyr. Charmingly, this was first broadcast the week I arrived: September 24, 1984. I might have listened to it, unpacking. I probably did.

Sir Walter Scott wrote the poem in 1825. I add a few interesting stanzas not usually sung, about the social and class and religious geography of the City. The “godly plants of the Bow” were the smug white-lace-collar rich Presbyterians, and the Whigs in the Grassmarket were the more or less non-religious workaday artisans who just want their potholes filled. Both parties, for their own reasons, despised both the Jacobite Highlanders, and the overweening English-Dutch Sassenachs. Either way, the Toun was glad to be rid of the charming, powerful, dangerous Dundee.

Tae the lairds o’ Convention ’twas Claverhouse spoke
Ere the King’s crown go down, there are crowns tae be broke;
Now let each cavalier wha loves honour and me
Come follow the bonnets o’ bonnie Dundee.

Chorus: Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,
Come saddle my horses and call out my men.
And it’s ope the West Port and let us gae free,
And we’ll follow the bonnets o’ Bonnie Dundee!

Dundee he is mounted, he rides doon the street,
The bells they ring backwards, the drums they are beat,
But the Provost, (douce man!), says;’ Just e’en let him be
For the toon is weel rid of that de’il Dundee.’

As he rode down the sanctified bends of the Bow
Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her pow;
But the young plants of grace they looked couthie and slee,
Thinking, ‘luck to thy bonnet, thou Bonny Dundee!’
Come fill up my cup, etc.

With sour-featured Whigs the Grassmarket was crammed,
As if half the West had set tryst to be hanged;
There was spite in each look, there was fear in each e’e,
As they watched for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee.
Come fill up my cup, etc.
— Sir Walter Scott, ‘Bonny Dundee’

The Corries then get our blood all fired up for the other side in the same war! That’s Scotland for you. Robbie Burns puts our sympathy with the Jacobite Highlanders, who don’t want the Protestant Dutchman William of Orange for their king. The POV is as of a defeated Highlander with PTSD, angered by the cocky tavern antics of a young man who hasn’t seen blood. “I saw the Devil and Dundee on the braes o’ Killiecrankie-o.”

A Tour Of The Highlandf, Iflands, and Antiquitief of Scotland; With a Scenic Detour, Through The Lake Diftrict of Cumbria

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JUNIOR YEAR ABROAD DEPT.

“Where hae ye been sae braw, lad?
Where hae ye been sae brankie-o?
Where hae ye been sae braw, lad?
Cam’ ye by Killiecrankie-o?
An’ ye had been where I hae been,
Ye wadna been sae cantie-o.
An’ ye had seen what I hae seen
On the braes o’ Killiecrankie-o!
— Robert Burns, 1780

Not even out of the Lawnmarket, and arguing already! Boswell tries to convince Johnson they need to turn down the Bow, to get to the West Port coach.

In 1773, Dr. Johnson and his Boswell, Boswell, bad farewell to Auld Reekie, and set out on a famous stag bummel around Scotland. Both men wrote books about the adventure.

In 1985, my friend Chaim and I set out from Milne’s Court for an Easter-week tour of many of the same beauty spots of Scotland. View, do:

WARNING: This is Scotland, not Scottsdale. Bring a brolly, and train yourself mentally, not to mind hypothermia.

First, the Lake District: Lake Windermere, and the hills around.

To appreciate the banter, the belles-lettristic by-play of our two-men-in-a-boating, meet Chaim.

From one the finest families in the Burgh of Brotherly Love, Chaim is courtly, a gentleman, funny as hell, with a rapier wit. (He was a college fencing champion, then a Philadelphia lawyer, now a Philadelphia rabbi). He loved exploring Britain as much as I did. Chaim read British poetry at Edinburgh, so imagine as we go, the eight-score or so, of his burstings into parodic verse: of Shelley, or Wordsworth, or worse, some limerick about the lass in the hay rick; or Southey, or Byron; while I smoked, admirin’.

Into the Highlands on the West Highland Line; to Fort William, and Oban, and the ferry to Skye. I didn’t take many pictures of our days of hill-walking, because my Kodak wasn’t submersible. And remember how expensive film used to be? And often, up here, totally unavailable. So I didn’t waste shots. But — to be honest — it all looks like some variation of this:

Bleak, eh? I had studied the Highland Clearances in BEH; knew about the uprooted crofters, and the enclosures, and the forced depopulation of the place. But wow. From the train, we saw great massive herds of deer moving across the hills, following some huge stag. It was thrilling, especially with the dark clouds behind, and scattered beams of light on the crags.

“My heart’s in the Highlands,
My heart is not here;
My heart’s in the Highlands,
A-chasing a deer.
A-chasing the wild deer, and chasing the roe.
My heart’s in the Highlands,
Wherever I go.
— Robert Burns

Tragically, one of the main reasons it’s so bleak is the heather and native trees have all been browsed off for 200 years. Whole mountain ranges were laid waste by conversion into artificial “deer parks” by jobbing landlords that were — are — empty feedlots monocropping deer.

Royal Collection Balmoral: ‘The Deer Drive’ by Sir Edward Landseer

The land was de-populated to create these huge herds, in numbers far out of proportion to anything in the wild, to attract day-tripper shooting parties eager to live the “Highland Life:”

Imagine 200 or 300 Nigel Incubator-Joneses filling every daily train up from Euston, each demanding a fantasy hunt like the one depicted above. Robbie Burns’s song, sung in parlor after parlor, also did much damage, ginning up demand. Still my God, the space. The air. The clouds. The Lochs…

Finally, civilization at last! View Inverness, ‘capital of the Highlands.’ (Tip: order Peking Duck 24 years in advance.) The Castle, really Town Hall is — what else? pink and green:

Easter, we finally got sunshine. We gobbled our English Breakfast at the B&B (kippers or salmon, roasted half tomato, bacon and egg, fried bread, toast with jam, grapefruit juice, Nescafe, Sanka or tea). The Landlady said, will ye lads be goin’ to kirk? Chaim was game. I nervously perused the options in the thin yellow pages: “Our faith’s so strong, YOU won’t believe it!” Hmmmm. I feared I might be leading us into some Ranter Separatist Covenanter Fundamentalist sect. I pictured a dour congregation in black suits and frocks, with big lace collars…really, a front for a coven of witches. I held up my finger to Chaim and said “Goyim time out.” I pulled the Landlady over for a conference. I told her I hoped to show my friend a lively, tasteful, flowers-and-choir Easter experience. She said, St. Andrew’s Cathedral. Hallelujah!

ST. ANDREWS

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North. Much more interesting to me was ancient St. Andrews. One of the most historic and beautiful cities in Scotland, it was one of the medieval Royal Burghs, with an early international waterfront trade. The medieval town plan was much studied by Patrick Geddes.

Its monastery, its Cathedral, and its prime archepiscopacy, dominated Scotland’s intellectual and spiritual affairs until the Reformation. The bones of St. Andrew made it a pilgrimmage destination ($$$).

Its University was founded in 1413 (by the Bull of an Avignon Anti-Pope!) giving St. Andrews primacy in education as well.

The Castle, built as the fortified seat of the Archbishops, was devastated and rebuilt many times in Scotland’s bloody history.

Sardines? No, exploring the mines and counter-mines dug under the Castle during sieges

All these trends of organic civilization, trends building for centuries — the thriving trade of the waterfront, the prestige and administrative power of the bishops and monks, the growth of the educated population into a middle class — were knocked into a cocked hat in 1559.

Our faith is so strong, YOU won’t believe it!

One night John Knox, the Luther of the Scots, triumphantly led a torch-light procession to enter the cathedral, and preached a barn-burner of a sermon to the dour congregation of protestants, in black suits and frocks and big lace collars. He decried the Popery and vanity of the ancient cathedral. He exhorted his followers to burn the barn down, and they did. It was the largest church ever built in Scotland. Some of the priceless art and treasures and library was saved by horrified townspeople.

With no archbishop to restore it, the Castle fell into ruin too. With nobody up top to support the service economy, that fell apart and the clerks and artisans fled; and with nobody to buy luxury import goods, the traders left the Mercat. Royal revenues plunged.

But, naturally (or, rather, unnaturally) there is the famous golf course, the green carpet of which, simply continues into much of the town. It’s a public course. The whole town was saved by the completely unexpected adoption of the town’s special little links, and the funny game they played there, by the wealthy of the world,

Think Pink!

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HAPPY PRIDE DEPT.

The View needed cheering up. Why pink? Pink = sublime. Plus it’s got Bazzazz!

Your Gay Pride Pink-apalooza issue features an erudite essay about interior decorating from our gayest reporter. Then, ‘Pop That Pessimism!’ as our special update of “The Makeover of Lopez Canyon” pulls you into a meadow full of pretty pink flowers. But first, Kay Thompson:

THE ADAM FAMILY IN THE PINK

I noticed in the prints of my Scotland pictures that everything in the Lowlands has a nimbus of pink about it. I thought it was cheap film that had degraded, so I had them digitized. The images returned and look beautiful, much clearer than the prints; but, pink. I think that’s just how Scotland looks. It’s WAY far North, and gets the sun’s long rays, for its many short days. Add a humid, temperate, mist-bound climate, and it’s a recipe for plenty of pink sky in the mornings and afternoons. [Scotland also has plenty of industry producing what we would call smog; and it has, since at least 1750.] Whatever the cause, I realized it’s part of what gives the place a rosy glow in my mind’s eye.

Pink is one of the signature colors of Venice, another place where the sun often rouges the misty air’s cheek. In the Neo-classical heyday of the 18th century, Venetians made an art out of bringing their beautiful pink light indoors:

It was during the Grand Tour, when Scotland’s artists and aristocrats toured Italy and brought back treasures, that the pink light and pink rooms inspired tastemakers. They tried to achieve a similar sublime effect in the satin skyglow of hame, and succeeded nobly. The great Adam family of architects and designers, whose influence is unrivaled in Britain and America, led the way in making pink — the pale pink of misty clouds on a gentle afternoon — the most elegant Neo-classical color of them all. Note how swank the green accents are.

The Edinburgh version of Neo-classical style was wildly popular. Pink works better in Scotland, in fact, than Venice: not only is the sky pink, but the native plants and heather are pink, too (or were); and the very rocks in the rills are pink! And, there are green forests and grasses to complement it perfectly (which there isn’t much of in Venice.) Thus, the gentle, soothing pink and green of the outdoors, was brought indoors, in the heyday of Scottish design.

It’s easy to see where America’s golfing set acquired the taste for pink and green:
from Scotland, of course! It looks like hame.

THE TRANSFORMATION OF LOPEZ CANYON, Pt. 6

This June brought my first sighting up there of Island pink yarrow. Tiny, exquisite against the June gloom skies, they are so perfectly pink. I hope to see many more next year.

Achillea millefolia, Island pink yarrow. But look over there…!

https://www.ediblewildfood.com/fireweed.aspx

What becomes a June meadow more than a pink petticoat of fireweed?

They looked like lupines from the road; and I clocked them in Lopez Canyon last year, June 2019, where they — blush — stood out. This year I learned they aren’t lupines, they’re fireweed! A welcome and needful pioneer species for meadows and watercourses recovering from fire. They grow worldwide, but these are our locally adapted variety. A year ago there were only two or three: