Robert Burns got his name attached to most of the poems in “The Merry Muses of Caledonia”, a collection of poems in Scots dialect, mostly about fucking. The rest concern … farting.
The idea of “The Merry Muses” is a bit better than the reality, though, because the poems could only seem funny if you were heroically drunk, and they aren’t all that sexy, either. Here’s a slice of one of the best ones.
From: Haed I the Wyte She Bade Me
I pat six inches in her wame,
A quarter wadna fly’d her;
For ay the mair I ca’d it hame,
Her ports they grew the wider.
My tartan plaid, when it was dark,
Could I refuse to share it;
She lifted up her holland-sark,
An bad me fin’ the gair o’t:
Or how could I amang the garse,
But gie her hilt an hair o’t;
She clasped her hochs aboot my erse,
An ay she glowred for mair o’t.
So Burns’s idea of a sex poem is a man complaining that some woman didn’t find his cock big enough and wasn’t ready to stop when he was. If it was just one poem, you could say it was characterisation, where you’re not meant to take the singer’s point of view, like in a Randy Newman song. Trouble is, they’re all like that. Except the ones about farting.
It makes you wonder how Scots blokes got their romantic reputation. I know a woman who swears she will fuck any man who asks her nicely in a Scots accent.
Actually, that’s probably true of every woman I know, ach the noo. Sean Connery’s doing a lot of the carrying, I guess.
On the other hand, the Scots gave us the little kilt, essential wear for women pretending to be schoolgirls, and the tawse. And if you like welts and weeping (that’d be wauts and greetin’, if Burns wrote poems about that sort of thing), then the tawse is your implement.
I bought my tawse in Lochgelly. I’m a traditionalist, when I remember.