Slavery in Canada
Address of Beelzebub by Robert Burns
Last Sunday, I mentioned a poem by Robert Burns, ‘Address of Beelzebub’, that was written as a letter from Beelzebub to a Scottish lord, that was praising him for his work in trying to stop the emigration of some peasants to Canada - because these peasants were his property, they were a part of his estate! This poem shows us the disdain and contempt that these lords held for the common people, but shows us the hope and promise that the common people were looking for. It also shows us Burns’ use of satire and his much-loved sense of humor.
So, this week, I wanted to change what I was going to post, and instead I’m posting this poem, and I thought I’d add some translations from the Scottish dialect, where it might help.
[P.S. Mr. Burns’s first name is ROBERT, not Robbie, or Rabbie, or anything else. It’s Robert.]
Address Of Beelzebub, by Robert Burns
To the Right Honourable the Earl of Breadalbane, President of the Right Honourable the Highland Society, which met on the 23rd of May last, at the Shakespeare Covent Garden, to concert ways and means to frustrate the designs of 500 Highlanders, who, as the Society were informed by Mr. M’Kenzie of Applecross, were so audacious as to attempt an escape from their lawful lords and masters whose property they were, by emigrating from the lands of Mr. Macdonald of Glengary to the wilds of Canada, in search of that fantastic thing – Liberty.
Long life, my Lord, an’ health be yours,
Unskaithed by hunger’d Highland boors!
unscathed hungry
Lord grant nae duddie, desperate beggar,
no ragged
Wi’ dirk, claymore, and rusty trigger,
With dagger, sword
May twin auld Scotland o’ a life
rob old of
She likes - as butchers like a knife!
Faith! you and Applecross were right
Mr. M’Kenzie of Applecross
To keep the Highland hounds in sight!
I doubt na! they wad bid nae better
not would ask no
Than let them ance out owre the water!
once over
Then up amang thae lakes and seas,
among those
They’ll mak what rules and laws they please:
make
Some daring Hancock, or a Franklin,
John Hancock Ben Franklin
May set their Highland bluid a-ranklin;
blood a-boiling
Some Washington again may head them,
George Washington
Or some Montgomerie, fearless, lead them;
Richard Montgomery
Till (God knows what may be effected
When by such heads and hearts directed)
Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire
May to Patrician rights aspire!
Nae sage North now, nor sager Sackville,
No Lord North Lord Sackville
To watch and premier o’er the pack vile!
An’ whare will ye get Howes and Clintons
where William Howe Henry Clinton
To bring them to a right repentance?
To cowe the rebel generation,
scare
An’ save the honour o’ the nation?
They, an’ be damn’d! what right hae they
have
To meat, or sleep, or light o’ day,
Far less to riches, pow’r, or freedom,
But what your lordship likes to gie them?
give
But hear, my lord! Glengary, hear!
Mr. Macdonald of Glengary
Your hand’s owre light to them, I fear:
over
Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies,
magistrates
I canna say but they do gaylies:
cannot gayly
They lay aside a’ tender mercies,
An’ tirl the hullions to the birses.
strip slovens bristles
Yet while they’re only poind and herriet,
seized robbed
They’ll keep their stubborn Highland spirit.
But smash them! crush them a’ to spails,
all chips
An’ rot the dyvors i’ the jails!
bankrupts
The young dogs, swinge them to the labour:
beat
Let wark an’ hunger mak them sober!
work make
The hizzies, if they’re aughtlins fawsont,
girls at all good-looking
Let them in Drury Lane be lesson’d!
An’ if the wives an’ dirty brats
Come thiggin at your doors an’ yetts,
begging gates
Flaffin wi’ duds, an’ grey wi’ beas’,
Flapping with rags with lice
Frightin awa your deuks an’ geese,
away ducks
Get out a horsewhip or a jowler,
bull dog
The langest thong, the fiercest growler,
longest
An’ gar the tatter’d gypsies pack
make
Wi’ a’ their bastards on their back!
With all
Go on, my Lord! I lang to meet you,
long
An’ in my ‘house at hame’ to greet you.
home
Wi’ common lords ye shanna mingle:
With shall not
The benmost neuk beside the ingle,
innermost nook fireplace
At my right han’ assigned your seat
hand
’Tween Herod’s hip an’ Polycrate,
Or (if you on your station tarrow)
tarry
Between Almagro and Pizarro,
A seat, I`m sure ye’re well deservin’t;
you’re deserving
An’ till ye come - your humble servant,
BEELZEBUB.
Hell, 1st June, Anno Mundi 5790.
(Some literalists’ reading of the Bible, and some freemasons too, claimed that the world was created in 4004 B.C., so that the year 1786 AD was really the year 5790)
[ next week - part 2 - The Fight for a House of Assembly in Canada ]