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[ormunymwe]

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[scotianostra]

Thomas Blacklock the Scottish poet was born November 10th, 1721.

Blacklock was born near Annan, Dumfries and Galloway, of humble parentage, and lost his sight as a result of smallpox when six months old. He began to write poetry at the age of 12, and studied for the Church. He was appointed Minister of Kirkcudbright, but was objected to by the parishioners on account of his blindness, and gave up church on receiving an annuity.

During the 1750s he was sponsored by the philosopher David Hume

He moved to Edinburgh, where he became a tutor and published some miscellaneous poems, which are now forgotten, and is chiefly remembered for having written a letter to Robert Burns, which had the effect of dissuading him from going to the West Indies, indirectly saving his life since the ship sank on the voyage.

As Burns later recalled to John Moore, it was a letter from Blacklock in late 1786 praising the “Kilmarnock Poems” that confirmed him to abandon his plans to emigrate and try his poetic fortunes in Edinburgh. But while this story has often been recounted, scant critical attention has been paid to Burns’s reflection that “the Doctor belonged to a set of Critics whose applause I had not even dared to hope.”

The building in which he lived (at the corner Chapel Street and West Nicholson) now contains several pubs including The Peartree and The Blind Poet (the walls of which are decorated with a number of Blacklock's poems).

He died at his home, and was buried across the way in the churchyard of St Cuthbert's Chapel of Ease, now called Buccleuch Parish Church it is the oldest ecclesiastical building on the south side of Edinburgh.

Unfortunately Blacklock's fame seems to be more about his connection with Rabbie Burns, although he does get a mention in a recent "birthday" boys' James Boswell, having met the writer with Samuel Johnston in Edinburgh, the book being Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides.

The Blind Poet is best known for this verse, A Letter from Thomas Blacklock to the Author, respecting Burns.

Dear madam, hear a suppliant's pray'r,

And on our bard your censure spare,

Whase bluntness slights ilk trivial care

Of mock decorum:

Since for a bard its unko rare

To look before him.

With joy to praise, with freedom blame,

To ca' folk by their Christian name,

To speak his mind, but fear or shame,

Was at his fashion:

But virtue his eternal flame,

His ruling passion.

This by-past time, as fame reports,

The author's Muse was out of sorts,

And in some freak, perhaps in dorts,

Or ablins spleen:

She paid her visists at the shorts,

An' lang between.

But, when your sang approach'd his ear,

How fain he was, you need na speer,

The smiles of heaven, whilk nature chear,

Were never brighter:

Na sudden tide of worldly gear

Sae gars him flighter.

But lang enough, perhaps o'er lang,

I draw an auld man's feeble sang;

Yet, tho' in this ye ca' me wrang,

Perhaps na blate;

I still maun ask, for a' my thrang,

Alicia's fate.

Burns and Blacklock struck a friendship in correspondence exchanging their poems leading to our national bard Burns at one point later describe his songs as 'very silly'. Burns even wrote a poem called epistle to the Rev (Dr) Thomas Blacklock. 'Wow but your letter made me vauntie'

You can read much more about "The Blind Poet" here https://electricscotland.com/his…/other/blacklock_thomas.htm

Also a book of his poems can be found hear https://archive.org/stream/poemsbymrthomasb00byth/poemsbymrthomasb00byth_djvu.txt

#scotland #scottish #history #edinburgh #Poet #Makar

[legend-collection]

Cutty-Sark

Cutty-sark (18th century Scots for a short chemise or undergarment) is a nickname given to Nannie, a fictional witch created by Robert Burns in his 1791 poem Tam o' Shanter, after the garment she wore. In the poem, the erotic sight of her dancing in such a short clothing caused the protagonist Tam to cry out "Weel done, Cutty-sark", which subsequently became a well-known catchphrase.

She gave her name to the tea clipper Cutty Sark, which featured her figurehead at the bow. A brand of Scotch whisky is in turn named for the ship.

In Burns' poem Tam o' Shanter (first published in 1791), the drunken Tam, riding home on his horse, happens upon a witches' dance. Among the dancing figures is a particularly beautiful young witch named Nannie (Scots pet-form of Anna), "ae winsome wench and wawlie" (line 164). She is wearing a harn (linen) sark (nightshirt) which fitted her as a child (a "lassie") but is now rather too short for her:

Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn, That while a lassie she had worn, In longitude tho' sorely scanty, It was her best, and she was vauntie. Ah! little kend thy reverend grannie That sark she coft for her wee Nannie Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches) Wad ever graced a dance of witches! (lines 171ff)

(lassie, "girl"; vauntie, "joyous, boasting"; kend, "knew"; coft, "bought"; twa, "two".)

Tam is so enthralled by the erotic spectacle that he cannot contain himself and yells out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!" (line 189). The witches are now alerted to his presence and pursue him. Tam heads for the River Doon, because, according to folklore, witches cannot cross running water. He makes it across the bridge to safety, but not before Nannie, the "Cutty-sark", has torn the tail from his horse. The poem ends ironically, with a mock warning to all men of the devilish consequences of thinking about scantily-clad females.

The popularity of this poem was such that the phrase, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!", entered the English language via Scots as an exclamation similar to "Bravo!"

Literary allusions to the original Cutty-sark abound. For example, in Ulysses, James Joyce writes, "Laughing witches in red cutty sarks ride through the air on broom sticks"

#cutty-sark #scotland #celtic isles #uk

[444names]

pretty vulgarlang generated words + brythonic deities

Abakai Abarus Abatelen Abayetant Abellicus Abnos Abuxensp Adear Adent Adeva Adeviris Adran Adrepon Adrit Adroutis Adsumarus Aeriveta Aernus Aerso Aganotus Agioval Agrow Ainera Ainus Aladj Aladv Alatus Albetinus Albeucel Algono Allia Allous Altek Altera Althus Amarudius Amullow Andrankou Anesta Anger Angere Anius Ankoumar Anode Anois Antia Arisanot Arnus Artas Arusis Asdrentar Asdrinect Asgus Assua Assus Astelex Atian Atisa Atutian Atutiar Averia Avetios Avevao Avevaunus Bakrabake Bakrafol Bangerius Barep Bated Batek Bayen Bayenus Bayet Bayeta Beginos Begonnus Begus Behade Behadsua Behaver Beladv Belear Belearus Beleual Beleus Bella Bellatuth Bellia Bellicame Bellike Belly Beltep Belth Betar Beteerius Betep Betiar Beuaarus Beual Blauen Blauona Boksaneme Borise Borit Boriver Borve Borven Borver Borveris Bosedat Bowth Brakai Brametek Brelex Brian Brighbok Brindiner Busua Buxen Buxent Buxentar Cadrepon Cadsucadj Camar Camaue Camaus Castaopar Catiomar Cellos Ceris Cerius Cessan Ceted Cetios Chaden Chastar Chool Choolgona Choos Cicus Cidia Cidius Ciens Cientine Cientita Cimbrit Clotouns Clowl Cocicar Cocis Cocius Coldtrama Coldtry Colgomos Colgon Colgonne Colladv Collia Collicold Comaponos Comon Compecus Complenta Conus Coolgon Coosp Couma Counnus Counus Couta Covake Covannus Covaus Covevake Covina Coviris Culiculus Cullugus Culuintit Curandia Dagary Dagus Dambis Dametios Damna Damogusio Damplect Dange Darnunus Darounnus Darusucar Dasdra Dasgus Dasterso Datobo Daton Denus Devak Devaus Drabat Drabus Dramartat Drancame Dranos Drantia Drase Drast Drebis Drion Drisaran Drist Drita Droat Earus Essissus Esson Faginota Fagro Fagrour Fancatio Floumary Folgonot Garduis Grabelex Grankous Groantus Groat Groatiron Grobis Grobok Grusis Huetedar Husis Iaernus Iaranot Imapon Imarus Imary Imbra India Inobis Intita Inuns Ionnat Jenus Jetep Jetis Jetont Lateda Latia Latonalat Lealbe Lentart Lentios Lighbow Listaopar Luinosp Luxen Luxenta Luxenus Luxovis Magio Marame Marnerebe Marnus Martren Matucanis Monus Moris Morrus Mulio Mulloume Mulluxens Naladenus Nalateer Namor Nated Neculugus Neiara Nemart Nemerius Neriner Nervet Nervoksan Nessusis Nextia Nextiona Nobayen Noissan Ogmio Ogmiovius Oguns Ogunthes Oparus Peritlect Pessio Pessis Pillos Pillus Pirduis Prebeo Prela Proan Proatek Proatoboe Pront Rabatao Rabus Rafolgon Rafollot Ramary Rancienth Ranemapon Rangerit Ranos Ranota Ranta Rasedamna Rassis Rasta Rastary Rastep Rauonus Rebelter Rebeual Rebis Rebius Regio Regon Regus Reiaregus Reirita Roatiae Roborrus Sagartia Samnal Samulis Sanerant Sanno Sanosella Santia Sarabat Saritai Segin Segind Segintia Shiosp Slike Slista Smeran Smerveta Sonnus Sounus Souta Soutia Sparidia Spillike Steeris Steerit Stepon Streigar Sucetound Tandamara Tania Tanoisan Tanos Taopartar Tarus Tastar Tepon Terissond Touth Tranian Trasa Trasgus Trast Trebeo Tricully Tricus Trius Uaartinta Uaarus Uaarusis Umagroat Umarduis Umary Umaus Umbisus Umbius Umbra Umbrase Uonama Uonnus Uontran Vakai Vakainus Vaneme Vangerose Vanobor Vanode Vauenta Vaufagrus Vaufan Vauntis Vaunus Vayeta Ventainus Ventuth Verianot Veris Verour Vetat Veter Veton Vetonnus Vevakai Vevakrake Vevaopar Vevaya Vevina Vevisa Vevitle Vhetis Vhetisan Vinematus Vinot Vintios Vintis Visant Visus Vitat Vititly Voksou Voselly Weian Weiancar Weighbos Weiro Weirouran Whera Whessio Whessis Whesta Wheta

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[tinyshe]

                            Tam O 'Shanter                                                                                                                                                                By Robert Burns                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

When chapman billies leave the street, And drouthy neebors neebors meet, As market-days are wearing late, And folk begin to tak the gate; While we sit bousin, at the nappy, And gettin fou and unco happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles, That lie between us and our hame, Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.         This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, As he frae Ayr ae night did canter: (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, For honest men and bonie lasses.)         O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice! She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, A bletherin, blusterin, drunken blellum; That frae November till October, Ae market-day thou was na sober; That ilka melder wi' the miller, Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, The smith and thee gat roarin fou on; That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday. She prophesied, that, late or soon, Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon; Ot catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.         Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet, To think how mony counsels sweet, How mony lengthen'd sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises!         But to our tale:—Ae market night, Tam had got planted unco right, Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, Wi' reaming swats that drank divinely; And at his elbow, Souter Johnie, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony: Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither; They had been fou for weeks thegither. The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter; And ay the ale was growing better: The landlady and Tam grew gracious Wi' secret favours, sweet, and precious: The souter tauld his queerest stories; The landlord's laugh was ready chorus: The storm without might rair and rustle, Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.         Care, mad to see a man sae happy, E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy: As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure; Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!         But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed; Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white—then melts forever; Or like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place; Or like the rainbow's lovely form Evanishing amid the storm. Nae man can tether time or tide: The hour approaches Tam maun ride,— That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; And sic a night he taks the road in, As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.         The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; The rattling show'rs rose on the blast; The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd; Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow'd: That night, a child might understand, The Deil had business on his hand.         Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg,— A better never lifted leg,— Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, Despising wind and rain and fire; Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet, Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet, Whiles glowrin round wi' prudent cares, Lest bogles catch him unawares. Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.         By this time he was cross the ford, Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd; And past the birks and meikle stane, Whare drucken Charlie brak's neckbane: And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel. Before him Doon pours all his floods; The doubling storm roars thro' the woods; The lightnings flash from pole to pole, Near and more near the thunders roll; 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.         Inspiring bold John Barleycorn! What dangers thou can'st make us scorn! Wi' tippenny we fear nae evil; Wi' usquebae we'll face the devil! The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle. But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, She ventur'd forward on the light; And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight!         Warlocks and witches in a dance; Nae cotillion brent-new frae France, But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels Put life and mettle in their heels. A winnock bunker in the east, There sat Auld Nick in shape o' beast: A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, To gie them music was his charge; He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl, Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.— Coffins stood round like open presses, That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses; And by some devilish cantraip sleight Each in its cauld hand held a light, By which heroic Tam was able To note upon the haly table A murderer's banes in gibbet airns; Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns; A thief, new-cutted frae the rape— Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape; Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted; Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted; A garter, which a babe had strangled; A knife, a father's throat had mangled, Whom his ain son o' life bereft— The grey hairs yet stack to the heft; Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'.         As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious: The piper loud and louder blew, The dancers quick and quicker flew; They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit Till ilka carlin swat and reekit And coost her duddies to the wark And linket at it in her sark!         Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans, A' plump and strapping in their teens! Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen!— Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair, I wad hae gien them aff y hurdies, For ae blink o' the bonie burdies!         But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, Lowping and flinging on a crummock. I wonder didna turn thy stomach.         But Tam ken'd what was what fu' brawlie; There was ae winsom wench and walie, That night enlisted in the core (Lang after ken'd on Carrick shore. For mony a beast to dead she shot, And perish'd mony a bonie boat, And shook baith meikle corn and bear, And kept the country-side in fear); Her cutty sark o' Paisley harn, That while a lassie she had worn, In longitude tho' sorely scanty, It was her best, and she was vauntie. Ah! little ken'd thy reverend grannie, That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches), Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches!         But here my Muse her wing maun cow'r, Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r; To sing how Nannie lap and flang, (A souple jad she was and strang), And how Tam stood like ane bewitch'd, And thought his very een enrich'd; Even Satan glowr'd and fidg'd fu' fain, And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main: Till first ae caper, syne anither, Tam tint his reason a' thegither, And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!" And in an instant all was dark: And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, When out the hellish legion sallied.         As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, When plundering herds assail their byke; As open pussie's mortal foes, When, pop! she starts before their nose; As eager runs the market-crowd, When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud; So Maggie runs, the witches follow, Wi' mony an eldritch skriech and hollo.         Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin! In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin! Kate soon will be a woefu' woman! Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the key-stane of the brig: There at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they dare na cross. But ere the key-stane she could make, The fient a tail she had to shake! For Nannie far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie prest, And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle; But little wist she Maggie's mettle— Ae spring brought aff her master hale But left behind her ain grey tail: The carlin claught her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.         Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, Ilk man and mother's son, take heed, Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear, Remember Tam o' Shanter's mear. [X]

#burns night #robert burns #poetry #tamoshanter

[little-pisces-dreaming]

vaunty

#words

[ferios-favorite-styles]

♬おすすめの曲 プレイリスト 015♪

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ASH feat. Vaundy /  Nulbarich, Vaundy Love Forever /  ��人, yama Break / Uru 思うまま /  INNOSENT in FORMAL Pink Vomit /  (sic)boy, KM, LEX Selfish / Ralph Kingslayer (feat. BABYMETAL) /  Bring Me The Horizon,  BABYMETAL へでもねーよ / 藤井風 暝天 / アルモニカ GRACE / Bray me ENTERTAINER /  I Don't Like Mondays. Show Me How /  Maika Loubté I'LL BE BY YOUR SIDE /  Hannah Warm, Revo Marty Reason - Dressed /  KOTARO SAITO, Mayumi Watanabe, tetsushi fujita melody stone /  The East Room Symphonies 笑止 /  君島大空 夢見心地 /  Mime,  maco marets ugh!!! /  UNI-Qreatives,  FLEUR No Stress / Linobu, SUB-K 雫 / @ onefive JK BOMBER / ずっと真夜中でいいのに。 Yellow city / RAMMELLS Missing / O.B.S, Juke Go to hell / KIRA メロウな日曜日 / Okayuka DREAMER / AMAEBI (https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6DLcd2P0ouhElaE8DP1TkI?si=cw4OZ1SHR86c7TW0NxKrIQから)

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[venezia214]

1872, October 18 -  The Cutty Sark arrived in the Docklands in Tea Races (fictionalised vignette)

(On 18 October 1872, the Cutty Sark arrived in the Docklands in Tea Races. Its arrival was a week after that of Thermopylae, after a total passage of 122 days. She is currently on public display at the dry dock in Greenwich.)

“Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn, That while a lassie she had worn, In longitude tho' sorely scanty, It was her best, and she was vauntie. Ah! little kend thy reverend grannie, That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches), Wad ever graced a dance of witches!”

The dim lights of London greeted us warmly as we reached the end of our journey. I looked up at the figurehead of Nannie Dee; the witch of Robert Burns’ poem Tam O’Shanter. 

The seductress in the torn garments which had led the hero of the poem to cry out in jubilation, enamoured by her mesmeric dance...

Much like Tam, I too had been seduced by the enchantress that was the Cutty Sark!

The life of a sailor was a lonesome and tiring one, yet something in the scent of the brine and crashing of the merciless waves against the teak implored me —against my more sensible nature — to set sail.

After 122 days at sea, the saltiness of the sea in the air — in all its redolence — had become something of a nauseating nuisance and a pestilence on the nostrils. 

I craved the land, and the comfort of hearth and home.

As Nannie Dee had pursued Tam to flee on horseback to cross the water, so too had I braved the oceans in our quest. 

We were the last the age of sail: just as the battle of Lepanto in 1571 was the last major naval battle involving oar-powered galleys, sailing boats were losing an entirely different war to modern steamboats.

We were sailing back with rue — our ships would soon be no more.

For years, tea clippers had raced from Shanghai to London, loaded with shipments of tea. The first to enter the docks would see the biggest returns on their investments. 

Our competitor — the Thermopylae — had left Shanghai at the same time as the Cutty Sark, but this was not a battle for tea profits; both our ships would most likely see no more than £3 per ton of tea sold, regardless of the winner. 

No, this was a race for which the prize was something far more prestigious — the honour of being one of the fastest of the sailing boats, the last of the composite clippers to make such a journey, before — like the witch of Tam O’Shanter — we would no longer cross the water.

Captain Moodie had been quite vocal in his condemnation of Captain Kemball, who commandeered the Thermopylae. 

He’d deliberately underloaded his cargo hold, with just under 1,200,000 pounds of tea. This was about 200,000 pounds under the limit for the Thermopylae. 

In response, Moodie removed 20,000 pounds from his cargo hold.

It made no difference in the beginning. Moodie was a bolder and more determined captain than any I’d sailed under in the past. 

Running close to the shore, he had risked running aground or crashing into reefs and rocks, just to pick up the extra speed from the land winds. 

Out of Shanghai, we’d sailed steadfast and true, navigating the shores with deft precision, making great use of the strong winds and tides which spurred us onward, leaving Thermopylae limping behind in the distance. 

He worked us like beasts of burden. We spent long hours on deck, cold air in  the open ocean nipping at our skin and the briny surf lashing our bodies with the ebb and flow of the waves.

To see the Cutty Sark moored was to do her no justice. 

It was in the choppy, unforgiving waves of the open ocean that one could truly marvel at the tenacity of the composite tea clipper. 

With its concave bows and raked masts, the Cutty Sark was a skeleton of iron, with hulls of East India teak, red pine and rock elm. 

Below the waterline, she boasted sheets of copper, zinc and brass, protecting the wood from barnacles, weeds and the dreaded teredo worm; a saltwater parasite which fed on the rich timbers of ships. 

She was six times as long as she was broad, decorated ornately with sturdy iron masts, robust wire rigging and steam capstans — and where the wrought iron of steamships would surpass the sail — the Cutty Sark boasted speed without the need for cumbersome coal. 

She sailed swiftly on the wisps of the wind.

After two weeks of sailing, the Thermopylae was far out of sight, and the Cutty Sark pushed onwards through the Sunda strait. 

Moodie navigated the ship with precision through the choppy waters between the islands of Java and Sumatra. Wrestling against strong currents, the wind changed and a heavy gale ravaged the deck of the Cutty Sark. 

We worked tirelessly against the tempestuous weather, desperately trying to keep the ship from running aground. 

Then a horrific crunch ripped through the timber of the ship, and the ship lost all control against the gale, bobbing helplessly against the tide. 

The rudder had been torn from the ship, broken by the strength of the raging storms and the seething ocean.

Using nothing more than the sails to steer, we sailed out into the Indian Ocean. 

On that stretch of open ocean, after the gale had passed, the crew became fearful, imploring Captain Moodie to dock at Cape Town and repair the rudder.

An argument broke out when Captain Moodie refused. Docking — he claimed — was tantamount to forfeiting the race, and he would not allow it. 

As fearful sailors lamented their fate and hushed words hinted at a chance of mutiny, a man came forth by the name of Henry Henderson, the ship’s carpenter. He spoke of spare timbers and iron, which he could use to create a new rudder, without needing to stop.

I looked up at what remained of the figurehead that night. The frayed tail she clutched in her hand — which she had torn from Tam O’Shanter’s fleeing horse — had been lost to the ocean, along with a significant portion of the arm.

For the next six days, Henry laboured relentlessly against a brazier, working metal and timber to forge a new rudder — seven yards in length — as the men on deck were thrown across the deck at the mercy of the tumultuous ocean. 

Henry remained focused, tongs in one hand and hammer in the other, working diligently, only stopping to sleep or eat. At one point, the ship crashed against a large wave, which sent the contents of the brazier spilling across the deck. Red hot embers bounced and slid across the deck, burning Moodie’s own son on the arms and legs.

After the sixth day of meandering navigation, the rudder was complete. With much trepidation we undertook the arduous task of attaching the new rudder to the ship. 

When the ship began to right itself, a collective sigh of relief could be felt throughout the entire ship. We could now take control of the waves, guiding the Cutty Sark once again towards the motherland.

The remainder of the voyage, I basked in knowledge that soon we would be home safely. The prestige that came with winning meant little to me. 

The Cutty Sark and The Thermopylae were not rival ships, but simply two of the last vessels in the age of sails; an age which would soon be swallowed up by the sea, giving way to newer, faster ways to trade and travel the world.

As the lights of London drew closer and we docked to the sounds of jubilant crowds, we disembarked the Cutty Sark, and I put two uneasy feet on the motherland for the first time in over three months.

The Thermopylae had beaten us by six days. 

The race was lost, but we had emerged victorious against the ravages of the sea, and the steady march of time. 

Our entire cargo sold for no more than £3 a ton, to which Henry Henderson was given a bonus of £50 for his gallantry and tenacity in the face of adversity.

For me, that was the last voyage of the tea clippers — those scrappy boats of timber and iron that rode the waves at the behest of the wind at their sails. 

A steam boat upon the recently opened Suez Canal could do the same journey in a fraction of the time, and these old clippers just weren’t suited to the route. 

The only profitable use for these ships was transporting cotton from Australia — a perilous journey only fit for the hardiest of crews.

Perhaps the Cutty Sark, much like the witch that bestrode her, was destined not to cross the water, but to remain a monument to an industrious past, and the inevitable march of progress.

18 October 1872

#eastlondon #bookofdays #October18 #1872 #CuttySark #TeaRaces #Thermopylae #Greenwich

[emotoothtiger]

Tam o’ Shanter by Rabbie Burns

                    When chapman billies leave the street,

And drouthy neebors neebors meet,

As market-days are wearing late,

And folk begin to tak the gate;

While we sit bousin, at the nappy,

And gettin fou and unco happy,

We think na on the lang Scots miles,

The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles,

That lie between us and our hame,

Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame,

Gathering her brows like gathering storm,

Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

        This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,

As he frae Ayr ae night did canter:

(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses,

For honest men and bonie lasses.)

        O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise

As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice!

She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,

A bletherin, blusterin, drunken blellum;

That frae November till October,

Ae market-day thou was na sober;

That ilka melder wi' the miller,

Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;

That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on,

The smith and thee gat roarin fou on;

That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday,

Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday.

She prophesied, that, late or soon,

Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon;

Ot catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk,

By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.

        Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,

To think how mony counsels sweet,

How mony lengthen'd sage advices,

The husband frae the wife despises!

        But to our tale:—Ae market night,

Tam had got planted unco right,

Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,

Wi' reaming swats that drank divinely;

And at his elbow, Souter Johnie,

His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony:

Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither;

They had been fou for weeks thegither.

The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter;

And ay the ale was growing better:

The landlady and Tam grew gracious

Wi' secret favours, sweet, and precious:

The souter tauld his queerest stories;

The landlord's laugh was ready chorus:

The storm without might rair and rustle,

Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.

        Care, mad to see a man sae happy,

E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy:

As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,

The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure;

Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,

O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!

        But pleasures are like poppies spread,

You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed;

Or like the snow falls in the river,

A moment white—then melts forever;

Or like the borealis race,

That flit ere you can point their place;

Or like the rainbow's lovely form

Evanishing amid the storm.

Nae man can tether time or tide:

The hour approaches Tam maun ride,—

That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane

That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;

And sic a night he taks the road in,

As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.

        The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;

The rattling show'rs rose on the blast;

The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd;

Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow'd:

That night, a child might understand,

The Deil had business on his hand.

        Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg,—

A better never lifted leg,—

Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire,

Despising wind and rain and fire;

Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet,

Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet,

Whiles glowrin round wi' prudent cares,

Lest bogles catch him unawares.

Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,

Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.

        By this time he was cross the ford,

Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd;

And past the birks and meikle stane,

Whare drucken Charlie brak's neckbane:

And thro' the whins, and by the cairn,

Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn;

And near the thorn, aboon the well,

Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel.

Before him Doon pours all his floods;

The doubling storm roars thro' the woods;

The lightnings flash from pole to pole,

Near and more near the thunders roll;

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.

        Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!

What dangers thou can'st make us scorn!

Wi' tippenny we fear nae evil;

Wi' usquebae we'll face the devil!

The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle,

Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle.

But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd,

Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd,

She ventur'd forward on the light;

And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight!

        Warlocks and witches in a dance;

Nae cotillion brent-new frae France,

But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels

Put life and mettle in their heels.

A winnock bunker in the east,

There sat Auld Nick in shape o' beast:

A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,

To gie them music was his charge;

He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl,

Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.—

Coffins stood round like open presses,

That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses;

And by some devilish cantraip sleight

Each in its cauld hand held a light,

By which heroic Tam was able

To note upon the haly table

A murderer's banes in gibbet airns;

Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns;

A thief, new-cutted frae the rape—

Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape;

Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted;

Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted;

A garter, which a babe had strangled;

A knife, a father's throat had mangled,

Whom his ain son o' life bereft—

The grey hairs yet stack to the heft;

Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu',

Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'.

        As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd and curious,

The mirth and fun grew fast and furious:

The piper loud and louder blew,

The dancers quick and quicker flew;

They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit

Till ilka carlin swat and reekit

And coost her duddies to the wark

And linket at it in her sark!

        Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans,

A' plump and strapping in their teens!

Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen,

Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen!—

Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair,

That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair,

I wad hae gien them aff y hurdies,

For ae blink o' the bonie burdies!

        But wither'd beldams, auld and droll,

Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,

Lowping and flinging on a crummock.

I wonder didna turn thy stomach.

        But Tam ken'd what was what fu' brawlie;

There was ae winsom wench and walie,

That night enlisted in the core

(Lang after ken'd on Carrick shore.

For mony a beast to dead she shot,

And perish'd mony a bonie boat,

And shook baith meikle corn and bear,

And kept the country-side in fear);

Her cutty sark o' Paisley harn,

That while a lassie she had worn,

In longitude tho' sorely scanty,

It was her best, and she was vauntie.

Ah! little ken'd thy reverend grannie,

That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,

Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches),

Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches!

        But here my Muse her wing maun cow'r,

Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r;

To sing how Nannie lap and flang,

(A souple jad she was and strang),

And how Tam stood like ane bewitch'd,

And thought his very een enrich'd;

Even Satan glowr'd and fidg'd fu' fain,

And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main:

Till first ae caper, syne anither,

Tam tint his reason a' thegither,

And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!"

And in an instant all was dark:

And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,

When out the hellish legion sallied.

        As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,

When plundering herds assail their byke;

As open pussie's mortal foes,

When, pop! she starts before their nose;

As eager runs the market-crowd,

When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;

So Maggie runs, the witches follow,

Wi' mony an eldritch skriech and hollo.

        Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin!

In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin!

In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin!

Kate soon will be a woefu' woman!

Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg,

And win the key-stane of the brig:

There at them thou thy tail may toss,

A running stream they dare na cross.

But ere the key-stane she could make,

The fient a tail she had to shake!

For Nannie far before the rest,

Hard upon noble Maggie prest,

And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;

But little wist she Maggie's mettle—

Ae spring brought aff her master hale

But left behind her ain grey tail:

The carlin claught her by the rump,

And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

        Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,

Ilk man and mother's son, take heed,

Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd,

Or cutty-sarks run in your mind,

Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear,

Remember Tam o' Shanter's mear.

[leanstooneside]

Becoming distracted by melancholy thoughts

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[samrat747]

Epistle to Dr. Blacklock by Robert Burns ELLISLAND, 21st Oct., 1789.WOW, but your letter made me vauntie! And are ye hale, and weel and cantie? I ken’d it still, your wee bit jauntie Wad bring ye to: Lord send you aye as weel’s I want ye! And then ye’ll do.

- http://moby.to/ucuswg

[scotianostra]

Thomas Blacklock the Scottish poet was born November 10th, 1721.

Blacklock was born near Annan, Dumfries and Galloway, of humble parentage, and lost his sight as a result of smallpox when six months old. He began to write poetry at the age of 12, and studied for the Church. He was appointed Minister of Kirkcudbright, but was objected to by the parishioners on account of his blindness, and gave up church on receiving an annuity.

During the 1750s he was sponsored by the philosopher David Hume He moved to Edinburgh, where he became a tutor and published some miscellaneous poems, which are now forgotten, and is chiefly remembered for having written a letter to Robert Burns, which had the effect of dissuading him from going to the West Indies, indirectly saving his life since the ship sank on the voyage.

As Burns later recalled to John Moore, it was a letter from Blacklock in late 1786 praising the “Kilmarnock Poems” that confirmed him to abandon his plans to emigrate and try his poetic fortunes in Edinburgh. But while this story has often been recounted, scant critical attention has been paid to Burns’s reflection that “the Doctor belonged to a set of Critics whose applause I had not even dared to hope.”

The building in which he lived (at the corner Chapel Street and West Nicholson) now contains several pubs including The Peartree and The Blind Poet (the walls of which are decorated with a number of Blacklock's poems).

He died at his home, and was buried across the way in the churchyard of St Cuthbert's Chapel of Ease, now called Buccleuch Parish Church it is the oldest ecclesiastical building on the south side of Edinburgh.

Unfortunately Blacklock's fame seems to be more about his connection with Rabbie Burns, although he does get a mention in a recent "birthday" boys' James Boswell, having met the writer with Samuel Johnston in Edinburgh, the book being Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides.

The Blind Poet is best known for this verse,  A Letter from Thomas Blacklock to the Author, respecting Burns.

Dear madam, hear a suppliant's pray'r, And on our bard your censure spare, Whase bluntness slights ilk trivial care Of mock decorum: Since for a bard its unko rare To look before him. With joy to praise, with freedom blame, To ca' folk by their Christian name, To speak his mind, but fear or shame, Was at his fashion: But virtue his eternal flame, His ruling passion. This by-past time, as fame reports, The author's Muse was out of sorts, And in some freak, perhaps in dorts, Or ablins spleen: She paid her visists at the shorts, An' lang between. But, when your sang approach'd his ear, How fain he was, you need na speer, The smiles of heaven, whilk nature chear, Were never brighter: Na sudden tide of worldly gear Sae gars him flighter. But lang enough, perhaps o'er lang, I draw an auld man's feeble sang; Yet, tho' in this ye ca' me wrang, Perhaps na blate; I still maun ask, for a' my thrang, Alicia's fate.

Burns and Blacklock struck a friendship in correspondence exchanging their poems leading to our national bard Burns at one point later describe his songs as 'very silly'. Burns even wrote a poem called pistle to the Rev (Dr) Thomas Blacklock. 'Wow but your letter made me vauntie'

You can read much more about "The Blind Poet" here https://electricscotland.com/his…/other/blacklock_thomas.htm

Also a book of his poems can be found hear https://archive.org/stream/poemsbymrthomasb00byth/poemsbymrthomasb00byth_djvu.txt

#Scotland #scottish #poet #scholar #tutoor. #history #edinburgh

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