Comments on Robert Burns' 'love' poems:

I realize that I will most likely make a few enemies with this piece, but it is imperative that one reading must continue through to the end before comments ensue; I would expect this even of the most rudimentary reader.

Though I do not share his fondness for haggis, being of Scottish descent I admire Robert Burns' Bruce's March to Bannockburn more than any war/soldier piece of poetry or writing that I have ever read. When it comes to the pure patriotic power of the pen (pardon the excessive alliteration) Burns is quite a head and shoulders above all others, with the possible exception of General Patton. (I am American, after all...)

That said, I do not think Burns had any business writing love poems; the poor man did not know what the word really meant.

Burns was, admittedly, one of the great masters of the beautiful word; like a literary wizard he mixed his simple descriptions and adoration of visual beauty and youth far better than any Byron or Keats, in my humble opinion. This he did well; I cannot deny it. My problem with Burns does not lie with his ability to wind lovely, soft sounds around the ear, but with the meaning of said lines as they applied to him.

What is art without the artist? The poet, being responsible for the poem is also responsible for himself and his actions, as all humans are. When I say he did not know what love really meant, let me illustrate it with Jean, the eventual wife of Robert Burns. She was not his first infatuation, nor his last. While she may have once been awed and overwhelmed by the lovely poem written to her, and with Burns praising her beauty and extolling his love for her... being a woman I know it meant nothing once she saw the later, intimate one addressed to 'Anna'.

Many say: "Well, he was an independent! He wasn't restrained to one woman like so many of his peers! He wasn't bound by society!"

Yes, I have heard all these arguments...

All morals aside, if Burns didn't mean the words he wrote, then they mean nothing. His pieces on farming, drinking and patriotism I am certain he meant, as he lived his life as a hard-working farmer and writer, drinker and patriot. However, as far as the 'love' poems he penned, just like some bureaucrat running for office, he merely spouted pretty words to get some girl’s heart (votes) and meant none of his promise(s). Sure, he eventually married Jean, after fathering children with her (... and at least one, that we know of, previous to Jean with another woman). To his shame, even those sacred 'vows' Burns broke.

As women, when men lie to us, it strips away every pretty thing they have ever said and the following words mean little. Only action, as in doing what you say you will, has a lasting meaning, far beyond that of softy whispered words coated in honey.

In the way of a more earnest application, let us look at one of Burns' most well-known poems, meanwhile viewing it in the light of the way he lived his life... not with sarcasm, but with reality:

"My luve's like a red, red rose, that's newly sprung in June." (...and like a blossom, it will fade soon)

"My luve's like the melodie that's sweetly play'd in tune" (...and like a song it will end rather quickly and be played for someone else)

"As fair thou art, my bonnie lass, so deep in luve am I." (... he appreciated beauty like any man does; nothing wrong with that, but Burns quantifies said appreciation by stating he's deep in love.)

"And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry: Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun;" (... that's a long, long time. Repeated twice for emphasis.)

"I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run." (... so, until the end of his life. He swears this.)

"And fare thee weel, my only Luve, And fare thee weel a while! And I will come again, my Luve, Tho' it were ten thousand mile." (... my ONLY love. Enough said. disgusted)

When I first read this piece I thought: "Oh my word, how beautiful! How devoted! How honorable he must have been! And how he must have loved her..."

However, when I read the biographies on Burns and some of his own writings about himself, I was truly horrified. The adulterous betrayals with other women, several bastard children, many cast-off lovers (some simultaneously)...

"How could he?", I thought.

How could such a poet, a man who wrote such verses of simple, lilting beauty, treat the objects of those poems with such callous disdain? How could a man of such genius act so towards the ones he claimed to love?

Simple answer: he didn't really love them. The acts of duplicity and clear ignorance of anyone's love but his own (for himself) proves it.

So, why this commentary? Well.. I have yet to see someone speak so of this famed 'love' poet, and others like him; it is important that we weight art by the artist, lest the importance of meaning and definition get lost in the mists of time. It is the same way we scrutinize athletes by their actions, both on and off the field; the same method by which some do not watch certain movie stars whom do things of which they do not approve; the same way that some do not listen to music played by bands whom spend far too much on material items while claiming to help the poor, and the very same way some don't buy products from countries whom violate human rights. applause

Actions mean everything. Deeds alone immortalize the spoken words and make them real; otherwise, they are merely ink on paper, merely hot air spawned of a forked tongue.

Men doing what they say they will make women really believe in them; this makes said woman faithful to the end and keeps their eyes from wandering. Forsaking all others is a very real possibility. This principle works for guys too, so my husband tells me; good men seem to like it when their wives do what they promise to.

Before those angered by this commentary begin to compose scalding emails to me about "Hey! So you were once hurt by a liar; don't pick on Burns!", etc... well, actually... I wasn't.

Having learned from the example of an discontent, unfaithful poet, whom wrote of things he didn’t understand fully, I vowed to not let history repeat itself in me. I am currently married to my first love, whom proposed to me on our second date (we've been married 12 years and blessed with four lovely children). I never had to guess what he wanted; he didn't give me pretty speeches about my loveliness and his love for me... just the open and honest communications of a true companion, which is what I wanted most.

He is the man that poets of old only hoped of becoming; the kind of man that women throughout time have dreamt of meeting. This is how I can write these things: instead of getting ‘Burned’, I found love.

So, which is better? I suppose that depends on what you want.

If you want to be used by a smooth-talking Romeo whom only understands a shallow emotion which serves himself, then by all means fall for the pretty line. If you want a flattering woman whom pays attention to you as far as she gets what she wants, then believe her finely spun lies.

I am aware that people have been wounding each other far before Burns was even born, however, he, his words and his life exhibit very well what a clear confliction between words and deeds looks and sounds like. Robert Burns is the best example of a heart-breaker that I have ever heard of.

In addition, history’s adoration of Burns’s ‘love’ poems also shows the human tendency to revere outward beauty and preference of lovely speeches in lieu of valuing the constant and steadfast ability to be content, which, albeit is less glamorous and may lack a general feeling of ‘excitement’, but instead of such fleeting things Love lasts long; it grows more and more beautiful as it ages, like rare wine.

Robert Burns, and people like him, might have never felt real love; for this he has my pity. And yes, you may well shout : "He don’t need yer pity!" Well, at the end of his depressed and discontented life, I am certain even he would have given everything just to know love. I know I would not exchange places with anyone, not matter how famous, nor wealthy, nor beautiful, nor youthful, nor athletic, nor musical... it holds no candle to finding the one meant for me. Nothing on earth compares. Not even Burns could say that (and mean it). - Forest Of Lorien