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p-isforpoetry · 1 year

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Tam O'Shanter by Robert Burns (read by James Cosmo)

When chapmen billies leave the street, And drouthy neibors, neibors meet, As market days are wearing late, An' folk begin to tak the gate; While we sit bousing at the nappy, And getting fou and unco happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles, That lie between us and our hame, Where 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 ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice! She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum; That frae November till October, Ae market-day thou was nae sober; That ilka melder, wi' the miller, Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; That every naig was ca'd a shoe on, The smith and thee gat roaring fou on; That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday. She prophesied that late or soon, Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon; Or 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 Johnny, 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' favours secret,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 flower, its bloom is shed; Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white--then melts for ever; 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 showers 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 gray mare, Meg-- A better never lifted leg-- Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire; Despisin' wind and rain and fire. Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet; Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet; Whiles glowring 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 drunken Chairlie brak 's neck-bane; 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 canst make us scorn! Wi' tippeny, we fear nae evil; Wi' usquabae, 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 ventured forward on the light; And, vow! 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 scre'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 develish cantraip slight, Each in its cauld hand held a light.-- By which heroic Tam was able To note upon the haly table, A murders's banes in gibbet-airns; Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns; A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape; Five tomahawks, wi blude red-rusted; Five scymitars, 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 gray hairs yet stack to the heft; Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', Which even to name was be unlawfu'. Three lawyers' tongues, turn'd inside out, Wi' lies seam'd like a beggar's clout; Three priests' hearts, rotten, black as muck, Lay stinking, vile in every neuk.

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 linnen! Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair, I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies, For ae blink o' the bonie burdies!

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, Louping and flinging on a crummock, I wonder did na turn thy stomach!

But Tam kend what was what fu' brawlie: There was ae winsome wench and waulie, 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 cour; Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r; To sing how Nannie lap and flang, (A souple jade 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 commin'! Kate soon will be a woefu' woman! Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the key-stane o' 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 off her master hale, But left behind her ain gray tail; The carlin claught her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

No, 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 joys o'er dear - Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.

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Tam o' Shanter (Translation)

When the peddler people leave the streets, And thirsty neighbours, neighbours meet; As market days are wearing late, And folk begin to take the road home, While we sit boozing strong ale, And getting drunk and very happy, We don’t think of the long Scots miles, The marshes, waters, steps and stiles, That lie between us and our home, Where sits our sulky, sullen dame (wife), Gathering her brows like a gathering storm, Nursing her wrath, to keep it warm.

This truth finds honest Tam o' Shanter, As he from Ayr one night did canter; Old Ayr, which never a town surpasses, For honest men and bonny lasses.

Oh Tam, had you but been so wise, As to have taken your own wife Kate’s advice! She told you well you were a waster, A rambling, blustering, drunken boaster, That from November until October, Each market day you were not sober; During each milling period with the miller, You sat as long as you had money, For every horse he put a shoe on, The blacksmith and you got roaring drunk on; That at the Lords House, even on Sunday, You drank with Kirkton Jean till Monday. She prophesied, that, late or soon, You would be found deep drowned in Doon, Or caught by warlocks in the murk, By Alloway’s old haunted church.

Ah, gentle ladies, it makes me cry, To think how many counsels sweet, How much long and wise advice The husband from the wife despises!

But to our tale :- One market night, Tam was seated just right, Next to a fireplace, blazing finely, With creamy ales, that drank divinely; And at his elbow, Cobbler Johnny, His ancient, trusted, thirsty crony; Tom loved him like a very brother, They had been drunk for weeks together. The night drove on with songs and clatter, And every ale was tasting better; The landlady and Tam grew gracious, With secret favours, sweet and precious; The cobbler told his queerest stories; The landlord’s laugh was ready chorus: Outside, the storm might roar and rustle, Tam did not mind the storm a whistle.

Care, mad to see a man so happy, Even drowned himself in ale. As bees fly home with loads of treasure, The minutes winged their way with pleasure: Kings may be blessed, but Tam was glorious, Over all the ills of life victorious.

But pleasures are like poppies spread: You seize the flower, its bloom is shed; Or like the snow fall on the river, A moment white - then melts forever, Or like the Aurora Borealis rays, That move before you can point to their place; Or like the rainbow’s lovely form, Vanishing amid the storm. No man can tether time or tide, The hour approaches Tom must ride: That hour, of night’s black arch - the key-stone, That dreary hour he mounts his beast in And such a night he takes to the road in As never a poor sinner had been out in.

The wind blew as if it had blown its last; The rattling showers rose on the blast; The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed, Loud, deep and long the thunder bellowed: That night, a child might understand, The Devil had business on his hand.

Well mounted on his grey mare, Meg. A better never lifted leg, Tom, raced on through mud and mire, Despising wind and rain and fire; Whilst holding fast his good blue bonnet, While crooning over some old Scots sonnet, Whilst glowering round with prudent care, Lest ghosts catch him unaware: Alloway’s Church was drawing near, Where ghosts and owls nightly cry.

By this time he was across the ford, Where in the snow the pedlar got smothered; And past the birch trees and the huge stone, Where drunken Charlie broke his neck bone; And through the thorns, and past the monument, Where hunters found the murdered child; And near the thorn, above the well, Where Mungo’s mother hanged herself. Before him the river Doon pours all his floods; The doubling storm roars throught the woods; The lightnings flashes from pole to pole; Nearer and more near the thunder rolls; When, glimmering through the groaning trees, Alloway’s Church seemed in a blaze, Through every gap , light beams were glancing, And loud resounded mirth and dancing.

Inspiring, bold John Barleycorn! (whisky) What dangers you can make us scorn! With ale, we fear no evil; With whisky, we’ll face the Devil! The ales so swam in Tam’s head, Fair play, he didn’t care a farthing for devils. But Maggie stood, right sore astonished, Till, by the heel and hand admonished, She ventured forward on the light; And, vow! Tom saw an incredible sight!

Warlocks and witches in a dance: No cotillion, brand new from France, But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, Put life and mettle in their heels. In a window alcove in the east, There sat Old Nick, in shape of beast; A shaggy dog, black, grim, and large, To give them music was his charge: He screwed the pipes and made them squeal, Till roof and rafters all did ring. Coffins stood round, like open presses, That showed the dead in their last dresses; And, by some devilish magic sleight, Each in its cold hand held a light: By which heroic Tom was able To note upon the holy table, A murderer’s bones, in gibbet-irons; Two span-long, small, unchristened babies; A thief just cut from his hanging rope - With his last gasp his mouth did gape; Five tomahawks with blood red-rusted; Five scimitars with murder crusted; A garter with which a baby had strangled; A knife a father’s throat had mangled - Whom his own son of life bereft - The grey-hairs yet stack to the shaft; With more o' horrible and awful, Which even to name would be unlawful. Three Lawyers’ tongues, turned inside out, Sown with lies like a beggar’s cloth - Three Priests’ hearts, rotten, black as muck Lay stinking, vile, in every nook.

As Thomas glowered, amazed, and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious; The piper loud and louder blew, The dancers quick and quicker flew, They reeled, they set, they crossed, they linked, Till every witch sweated and smelled, And cast her ragged clothes to the floor, And danced deftly at it in her underskirts!

Now Tam, O Tam! had these been young girls, All plump and strapping in their teens! Their underskirts, instead of greasy flannel, Been snow-white seventeen hundred linen! - The trousers of mine, my only pair, That once were plush, of good blue hair, I would have given them off my buttocks For one blink of those pretty girls !

But withered hags, old and droll, Ugly enough to suckle a foal, Leaping and flinging on a stick, Its a wonder it didn’t turn your stomach!

But Tam knew what was what well enough: There was one winsome, jolly wench, That night enlisted in the core, Long after known on Carrick shore (For many a beast to dead she shot, And perished many a bonnie boat, And shook both much corn and barley, And kept the country-side in fear.) Her short underskirt, o’ Paisley cloth, That while a young lass she had worn, In longitude though very limited, It was her best, and she was proud. . . Ah! little knew your reverend grandmother, That underskirt she bought for her little grandaughter, With two Scots pounds (it was all her riches), Would ever graced a dance of witches!

But here my tale must stoop and bow, Such words are far beyond her power; To sing how Nannie leaped and kicked (A supple youth she was, and strong); And how Tom stood like one bewitched, And thought his very eyes enriched; Even Satan glowered, and fidgeted full of lust, And jerked and blew with might and main; Till first one caper, then another, Tom lost his reason all together, And roars out: ‘ Well done, short skirt! ’ And in an instant all was dark; And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, When out the hellish legion sallied.

As bees buzz out with angry wrath, When plundering herds assail their hive; As a wild hare’s mortal foes, When, pop! she starts running before their nose; As eager runs the market-crowd, When ‘ Catch the thief! ’ resounds aloud: So Maggie runs, the witches follow, With many an unearthly scream and holler.

Ah, Tom! Ah, Tom! You will get what's coming! In hell they will roast you like a herring! In vain your Kate awaits your coming ! Kate soon will be a woeful woman! Now, do your speedy utmost, Meg, And beat them to the key-stone of the bridge; There, you may toss your tale at them, A running stream they dare not cross! But before the key-stone she could make, She had to shake a tail at the fiend; For Nannie, far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie pressed, And flew at Tam with furious aim; But little knew she Maggie’s mettle! One spring brought off her master whole, But left behind her own grey tail: The witch caught her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

Now, who this tale of truth shall read, Each man, and mother’s son, take heed: Whenever to drink you are inclined, Or short skirts run in your mind, Think! you may buy joys over dear: Remember Tam o’ Shanter’s mare.

#Tam O'Shanter #Robert Burns #poem #poetry #video #James Cosmo #Youtube

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werewolfetone · 2 years

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Robert Burns Time? :3

Y E S

Robert Burns trivia:

this is probably a more obvious one but he's the national poet of Scotland! he deserves it too

he was kind of a proto-socialist in ideals, as well as a HUGE fan of the French Revolution (which kind of got him in trouble at least once), and radically in favour of societal reform. 19th and 20th century communists were big Burns fans and he was lauded in the Soviet Union as a 'progressive' artist. I'm personally not a communist or socialist but it's nice to know that he was Not Like Other First Gen Romantics in regards to politics

this is actually a piece of Jory trivia that I am sneaking in here but reading Burns' poetry was a major Thing for me when I was teaching myself to understand Scots so he is very close to my heart personally

Wordsworth and Coleridge never met him due to his death but visited his grave when they were on their tour of Scotland in the 1790s

he's usually called "proto-Romantic," which is true, but I usually refer to him among the Romantics because I mean. the themes are all there. plus, he was writing etc at the same time as William Blake, who is a Romantic (though Blake was alive during Romanticism's heyday so like). It's important in an academic context but it's easier in usual conversation to just call him a Romantic. also I'm not making another tag for proto-Romantics, he can go in the normal Romantic poets tag

He had twelve children, which is just a whole thing, and was mostly because of how much he loved to party, in... uh... multiple different ways

lastly, not all of his poems are in Scots, for instance Tam o'Shanter is a mixture of Scots and normal English, and it's a pretty good starting place with him. Most of them are fairly impenetrable though

#robert burns #burns #william wordsworth #wordsworth #samuel taylor coleridge #coleridge #tam o'shanter #romanticism #romantic poets #asks

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sohannabarberaesque · 2 months

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As if The Funky Phantom and companions hadn't read Rabbie Burns' famous tale of Tam O'Shanter's horse race with the Devil:

#hanna barbera #headline headcannon #old news #the funky phantom #robert burns #tam o'shanter #hannabarberaforever

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the-busy-ghost · 1 year

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Warlocks and Witches in a Dance

Do you enjoy classic literature? Do you like reading seasonal stories? Do you want to learn some funky new words? Do you want an excuse to spend the evening in a comfy chair with a hot drink and maybe a plate of shortbread, listening to the fiddle tearing into some reels and strathspeys, and perusing some engaging reading material while the rain and wind howl around outside?

Allow me to introduce you to honest Tam O’ Shanter, who stayed out too late one black night in Ayrshire and got the fleg of his life.

Links to the full poem:

https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/tam-o-shanter-tale/

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43815/tam-o-shanter

Language help:

https://dsl.ac.uk/ (this is a searchable dictionary of the Scots language both before and after 1700)

https://www.litscape.com/author/Robert_Burns/Robert_Burns_Glossary_S.html

Some Analysis and Textual History to start you off:

“The First Publication of Burns’ Tam o’ Shanter”, B.Dawson

“Burns’s Use of Parody in ‘Tam O’ Shanter”, Allan H. MacLaine

“The Narrator of Tam o’ Shanter”, John C. Weston

“Robert Burns, Tam O’ Shanter”, Murray Pittock

Wikipedia Entry for the old Kirk of Alloway

#Also Malcolm Arnold's Tam O'Shanter Overture is a good piece of classical music #Re: the hornpipes jigs strathspeys and reels- Concerto Caledonia did a good album of eighteenth century music #But for more modern numbers Duncan Chishol and Lauren McColl and really any bunch of Scottish fiddlers will suffics #booklr #poetry #Robert Burns #I have got to memorise more than the first couple of verses; I really want to annoy the hell out of my dad following him around reciting it #Though I really love even the first few lines especially the bit about Kate 'gathering her brows like a gathering storm'#'Nursing her wrath to keep it warm'#Like she COULD go to bed or maybe Tam is hoping that if he's late enough she will be too tired to fight about it when he gets in #But no our sulky sullen dame is going make SURE she keeps her anger at a good rolling boil so that she can lay into him when he gets in #No matter how late he is she will be blazing

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photo-biont · 1 year

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#parmelia #lichen #tam o'shanter park #king county #washington #nikon d40

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dozydawn · 1 month

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“Beauty on blades: Cathy Lee Irwin; sidelined from competitive skating for season by injury; puts on dazzling display in bursary dinner revue at Tam O'Shanter.”

Photographed by Boris Spremo.

12 May 1971.

#cathy lee irwin #figure skating #1971 #1970s #boris spremo

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weirdlookindog · 5 months

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John Faed (1819–1902) - Tam O'Shanter Escaping the Hellish Legion, 1855

illustration for 'Tam O'Shanter' poem by Robert Burns, 1788.

#john faed #tam o'shanter escaping the hellish legion #robert burns #tam o'shanter #horror art #demons #witches #victorian gothic #art #illustration

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mysterious-secret-garden · 9 months

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Thomas Landseer - 'Tam O'Shanter and Souter Jonny' by Robert Burns, 1830.

#Thomas Landseer #Tam O'Shanter and Souter Jonny #Tam O'Shanter #apparition #riding #witch #devil #demons

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undiscovered-horizon · 1 year

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Hi! Can you do a Morpheus x reader where she’s like his right hand and has been around since the beginning and is the second command and/or hand of the king and Morpheus is down bad and everyone can see he worships the ground she walks on and people who don’t know them are confused who is the ruler and who is actually the right hand because there so attentive to each other.the reader stays In The dreaming when Morpheus is captured and never stops trying to bring him home.and maybe a confession/proposal from dream

"The Right Honourable" - Morpheus x Reader

WORDCOUNT: ~ 3.3k Sandman-inspired playlist

The dispute over Roaring Plains went back to the creation of Dreaming. Barty and Garth claimed that the land belonged to their respective ancestors and that either should be the rightful and exclusive owner of the seven hills. After aeons of arguing and waking up every entity nearby at the crack of dawn with their yelling, Barty and Garth decided to finally take the matter to the King. After all, whose judgement could settle their dispute if not the voice of the Lord of the Realm?

Morpheus had a curious habit of sitting on his throne leaning slightly to the left where you stood as if he was always expecting you to chip in like a temptress whispering sweet words that slowly ruin an empire. Only you were quite the opposite - a temptress that softened the strong hand with which he ruled like a warm sunray brushing against frosty cheeks on a winter morning.

Due to the slightly overwhelming emptiness of the throne room, the rushed footsteps belonging to Barty and Garth resounded throughout the hall in a loud echo. As they marched through the marble corridors, their blurry reflections on the polished marble following them in an equally irate manner, the two farmers made sure to keep their comically large distance between each other.

Barty, being significantly taller than his neighbour Garth, approached the throne much faster and wasted no time in starting a broil. "I have come here to regain my rightful land!"

"Your rightful land?!" Garth asked between his pants. He tried to push Barty but the taller man didn't even flinch - he seemed to be more angry about Garth touching his brand new velvet green vest than attempting to shove him. "Roaring Plains belongs to me, ya dobber!"

The marble corridors as if with newly-found spite managed to make the affront louder and sharper sounding. Hearing the tasteless insult, you wanted to cut the growing tension as soon as possible. It was no way to speak in the presence of a king. "Garth, if you could-"

"Hey!" the farmer interrupted you. A deep wrinkle appeared between his thick, furrowed eyebrows. His angered face was about as maroon as his plaid tam o'shanter. It was worth noting that he took the hat off a little too late considering he had originally entered the throne room of the palace with his head covered. "I'm trying to speak to our merciful lord!"

Suddenly, Morpheus clenched his hand in a fist and moved ever so slightly out of the throne, sitting now on its very edge - ready to jump off it at any moment, a poked lion ready to pounce. "You will address the Right Honourable with proper respect," he began in a bizarrely calm, wavering voice like all of his energy was directed at not lashing out at the very moment, "or you can leave my palace and hope I have too many duties to tend to on this day."

Garth almost opened a dispute but managed to bite himself in the tongue. Barty tried to discreetly slap his neighbour on the shoulder as though to bring him to his senses.

"Garth and I came to you, my merciful lord, due to an old dispute about the land, Roaring Plains. After generations of disagreeing, we decided to leave the judgement to you, the highest and most rightful instance in this beautiful realm."

You looked at Morpheus when Barty regurgitated sleazy brown-nosing you had heard many times before. Despite the general lack of expression on his face, you could quickly tell he was growing tired and angrier: it was visible in the way he sat, the way his foot tapped against the floor and even the way he occasionally inhaled in a strangely sharp way as if he closed his ears to all the sweet-talking and consciously focused on breathing calmly to not lose his grip on emotions. It was something you appreciated about him as a king as well as a man - Morpheus was pragmatic. He yearned for honesty and straightforwardness, which wasn't exactly common in the royalty of any kind.

"I've heard enough." Morpheus interrupted the respective ramblings of Barty and Garth, each of them telling tall tales as irrefutable proof of being the exclusive, rightful owners of the disputed land. Given the severity of the conflict, it was pretty surprising that both farmers stopped talking the moment Dream asked them to. Neither of them was willing to go back home defeated.

It was such a normal thing for you to lean down and whisper. Only occasionally did Morpheus not expect for you to chip in and on such rare instances he made it very clear - he leaned as far away from you as he could while remaining seated. "My lord, Roaring Plains is too much land for one man to farm, no matter how driven. They could share it, bring prosperity in place of envy."

Another normal thing regarding your council was the way Morpheus would look at you. His bright eyes stared into yours with a certain reflection, always making you wonder what in the world he was pondering while admiring your face merely inches apart. Sometimes his blue eyes seemed strangely vacant as if the moment you appeared before them all coherent thoughts left his mind and there was only you in the entire universe. But it was only a nice thought about a nice man - you never quite believe there was even a grain of truth in that little observation.

Visibly reluctantly, Morpheus finally looked away from you and at the two farmers who nervously waited for the king's judgement. Barty kept picking at the hem of his velvet vest, picking off invisible dust and lost strings, while Garth crumpled his hat in his clammy, stained hands.

"So it shall be," Morpheus announced garnering the attention of the farmers. Both of them raised their eyebrows in surprise, clearly not knowing what their merciful lord meant through his words. "Roaring Plains shall be shared by you and your families from this day forward. Dismissed."

Barty and Garth looked at each other unsure. The taller of them forced a smile on his face and reluctantly extended his hand to the other man. Garth looked at the hand, then at the man's face and slowly shook Garth's hand. Barty quietly said something to his neighbour only to put his arm around his shoulder afterwards and lead him out of the palace. The ancient dispute seemed to have disappeared in a matter of minutes.

"King Morpheus unites and not divides," you said in an exaggerated official tone when the two of you were alone again. "Sounds rather lovely, doesn't it?"

He stared at you with a shadow of a smile dancing across his face. Everyone knew about Dream's affection towards you, perhaps except for the King himself. Should he be asked about it, he'd deny any favouritism and simply state that he follows your advice because it's good advice. "I owe such praise to my Right Honourable."

Some, however, began to consider a certain shift of power having witnessed their lord's curious affection towards you. In a colourful analogy, one might compare the arrangement to a magician and his assistant: everyone knows that it's the assistant who does the real magic. While the audience is captivated by the showman pulling another bunny from a hat, the true prestidigitator has a chance to fool the onlookers right in front of their faces. Such nonsense would have been already disputed officially in the King's court but firm believers of that conspiracy remained too anxious of their lord to ever bring their suspicions to light.

If someone from the Waking World was to visit Dreaming, one of the first things they'd notice would be the strangely unchangeable weather and a suspicious lack of wind. The latter, however, was a much more complex issue as there were only two places in all of Dreaming where air moved: Fiddler's Green, with its gentle spring breeze and the terrace garden of the King's palace where an equally gentle zephyr brushed against vines, trees and flowers.

The case of said terrace gardens was interesting in itself as it wasn't as old as the rest of the palace. In fact, there were villages in Dreaming that were older than the flowery addition, although the thickness and sprawl of the red ivy could suggest otherwise. Aside from ivy, the garden had beautiful flowerbeds of white roses, buttercups, carnations and lilies. Morpheus always thought they bloomed so nicely only because they were envious of your own charm.

"Right Honourable?" The familiar voice distracted you from the thick book you had in your hands. Morpheus was strolling towards you, clearly not in a rush to get on with any duties left for the day. "Lucienne doesn't take lightly the books leaving her library."

The sun was behind your back, creating an angelic halo of bright light and blooming flowers that filled the terrace garden. If you were to be gone the next morning, that was the way Morpheus would have wanted to remember you: happy, with nature cradling around you to admire your beauty with him. Thankfully, you were going to be in the Dreaming the next day. And the day after that as well as many more centuries to come. You were sitting on a marble bench with carved decorative birds and for a moment, Morpheus considered whether you needed a blanket or a set of cushions. Surely a seat of stone could not be a comfortable reading place.

"I am sorry to inform you, my lord but I'm afraid I'm the only exception to that rule. Lucienne has told me that I might be the only person who actually returns them on time."

"What is it you're reading?" he said as he sat down beside you. It was a rare occasion that both of you could do something else besides tending to the kingdom. Quite curiously, even during those scarce moments of downtime, you still decided to spend it with each other.

"The Goldfinch, my lord." Keeping your finger inside it, you closed the book to show the minimalistic and yet very meaningful cover. "It's about a boy who steals his late mother's favourite painting from a gallery and runs across the world with it. He ends up in Holland..." your voice trailed away and Morpheus silently waited for the questions you were inevitably going to ask. "Do you think Holland's nice?" you said as you looked at him.

"Waking World is no place for us." He spared no time in repeating obvious rules you were more than familiar with - you were there when they were written.

"I know, my lord," you answered in a slightly sadder tone. Sometimes you wished he didn't remind you of the fate bestowed on you. "Yet the stories from there always make me wonder. Like the titular goldfinch: it's this small yellow bird with black wings and a black forehead. Must be beautiful with its noble look." Your free hand longingly traced the bird on the cover as you spoke. "I'd love to see one someday, even in someone's dream."

The next few hours Morpheus and you had spent in silence as you were reading the book and he seemed to be thinking about something. It was a comfortable silence: one that falls between people who know each other a little too well to always be talking about something; after aeons spent together, there was hardly anything new you could tell each other but it wasn't awkward or upsetting in any way. No, it was a very comforting feeling that one may know someone too well to flood them with their stories and thoughts. After all, to be known is to be loved. Your next day began with an unfamiliar chirping outside the palace walls.

And one day he simply did not come back. He made promises and assurances and for the first time since the dawn of times, the word of the Dream Lord was not kept.

The palace was... silent. But not in the sense of a lack of sounds, no. It was silent of life, as though the moment the Lord of Dreaming had left his realm, all of his creation began slowly dying. You could only hope their fatal condition was not unanimous to Dream's. It was as if in creating his realm, Morpheus placed a part of himself in each particle present in that world. With him gone, that easy-to-overlook and yet entirely essential element had disappeared too. The genius loci of Dreaming didn't simply change in the absence of its master, no, it was completely gone as if vacancy could be a wraith that haunts.

"You have done all you could, Right Honourable," Lucienne assured you. The echo of her voice made the marble halls feel even more empty and abandoned than when they were drowning in dreaded silence. "We can only await our lord's immediate return." In her mind, he was always on his way back, about to reappear the very next moment, despite long decades of his absence.

"'All I could' seems to not be enough, Lucienne."

"We all miss him. You're not alone."

"It's quite the contrary, my dear," you answered without looking at her at first. With Dream's prolonged absence, she was adamant about keeping you company. "Morpheus was someone else to each and every one of us. I can not understand your loneliness and you can not understand mine. We are both lonely in our loneliness, how sad is that?"

Lucienne didn't answer your question but truthfully, you weren't exactly looking for one.

Dream's throne wasn't comfortable to sit on but he wasn't a man chasing comfort. The seat was rigid, prickly and made one overly conscious of their body and how it was contorted. Maybe there was some timeless wisdom in the king's throne being uncomfortable to sit or perhaps Morpheus was a bit of a masochist. Funnily enough, both options seemed equally probable.

"He always hated when I-..." you hung your voice. A heavy sigh left your lips before you corrected yourself. "He hates when I sit here. He tries his best not to show it and pretends he doesn't see but I can tell. And now, when I have to, I dread it. Do you think he feels the same way when he sits on the throne? That he has to watch his breath or else the whole kingdom turns to ashes."

"Our lord Morpheus is a noble ruler. We must have faith in him, Right Honourable."

"That we do," you said quietly under your breath as you sighed. You remained seated on his throne, staring mercilessly at the palace door as if you could will his return into existence.

And one day, a long overdue day, he simply showed up - tired, confused, angry, barely dressed. He refused to talk at first, storming through the palace halls, filled with rage that would put gods of war to shame. Something dark got a hold of him and you couldn't imagine what that meant for Dreaming and you.

After a hundred years of staring at the entrance of the palace, the king had finally returned but not exactly the same as the day he left. There was a strange coldness in his attitude, something he never quite showed towards you or Lucienne. Not wanting to anger him further, you quietly sneaked out of the palace to wait out his labile mood in the gardens. Ever since he disappeared, you watched them only through the windows, never daring to leave the throne room in case Morpheus suddenly returned or a calamity fell on the realm and you were responsible for mending it.

What once had been a terrace garden, now was nothing but a sad remnant of happier days, a monument of longing and heartache. Ivy was completely dry, its red leaves were nowhere to be seen. Brown vines barely engulfed the walls of the palace, threatening to break off and fall with a mere gust of wind. The flowers, too, had forgotten their former glory; shrubbery that had died so long ago that even soil forgot what they once were. The palace haven was once filled with excited chirping, while now none could be heard. Out of the goldfinches Morpheus had made, only one of them was left: an exhausted, emaciated bird that occasionally let out a quiet, sad chirp as if he was still trying to call out to his long-gone brothers.

The sound of heels tapping against the tiled floor made you turn around and finally look away from the ruins that you once called a garden. He seemed to not look at you but rather at the shrubbery behind you - at the dry ivy, dead flowers and the golden bird that refused to fly farther than a meter or two. For a moment you felt invisible as Morpheus walked towards the railing to get a better look at the gardens below. Judging by the slight raise of his eyebrows, you knew it was the first time he was seeing them after his return: he didn't know what ruin awaited in place of flowers and birds.

"What happened to you?" you asked quietly after a moment of silence. You weren't sure yourself whether you meant his sudden coldness or the entire century he was gone. Both had left you worried and unnerved.

"I was imprisoned by an amateur witch," he answered quietly. His voice was filled with contempt. "He managed to steal my tools as well."

Quite unsurprisingly, you didn't know what to tell him. A simple 'I'm sorry' wouldn't cut it when a case of being held captive for a hundred years was considered. "Morpheus, I-" you stuttered.

"While in captivity, I have had a lot of time to think," he continued without letting you interrupt.

"About what?"

"Various matters," he said in a dismissive manner. "Things passed as well as those that are yet to happen. Perhaps even things I wish would become true." You couldn't know it as you were looking at the dead plants but Dream bore his eyes into you as he spoke of his potential wishes.

"Such as?" you coaxed him.

"Although your council has always been wise and dear to me, there was another reason why I followed your advice. To make you happy."

Why in the name of all things holy would the king of Dreaming be concerned with that? You furrowed your eyebrows and quickly turned your head to look at Morpheus who was already staring at you. There was an intimidating intensity in his eyes like he was about to bestow a deeply hidden secret upon you.

"Like this garden." He looked away from you for a moment. Staring at his profile, you saw him slightly push his lips tighter together. "Its only purpose was to cure your unhappiness that tore my heart. It failed its purpose as did I. And this little bird, which occupied your mind as much as... I'd like to."

His confession seemed strange, to say the least. Morpheus wasn't one to talk about his feelings and so whatever knowledge he just shared with you it was of utmost importance as well secrecy.

"Morpheus, I'm afraid I don't entirely understand what you're trying to say." To be exact, you had a burning suspicion as to what he was suggesting but you wanted him to say it out loud - just to make sure it wasn't your yearning imagination bending the edges of reality.

In a gentle manner, he took your hand into his and looked into your eyes. The intensity you had seen in them before had only gotten deeper, rawer. "I had miss you greatly, my Right Honourable. I'm asking you to become my queen if you're willing to have me as your king."

"My king?" you repeated. "It nearly sounds obscene if you put it like that."

The corner of his mouth slightly pulled up. For the first time in a hundred years, the lonely goldfinch chirped happily. Perhaps, its loneliness, just like yours, was about to end.

#the sandman #the sandman imagine #the sandman netflix #the sandman fanfiction #morpheus sandman #the sandman fanfic #the sandman x reader #the sandman x you #morpheus imagine #morpheus x you #morpheus x reader #morpheus #morpheus fanfiction #dream of the endless imagine #dream of the endless fanfiction #dream of the endless x you #dream of the endless #dream of the endless x reader

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cakehorse · 1 month

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"I am here," Chekov said. He was carrying a worn leather bag filled with hickory-shafted clubs and wore baggy plus-four trousers bloused above the ankles and a floppy red-plaid tam o'shanter with a huge crimson pompom.

How Much For Just the Planet by John M. Ford

Chekov showing up for a golf duel against the Klingons.

#How Much For Just the Planet #John M. Ford #star trek #tos #Pavel Chekov #books #currently reading #the clubs belong to Scotty and the outfit was forced on him due to Mishaps #me: golf bad. Montgomery Scott: ... me: golf is good now

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venustapolis · 6 months

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Tam O'Shanter Pursued by the Witches (Eugène Delacroix, 1849)

#art #painting #Eugène Delacroix

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scotianostra · 3 months

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25th January marks the annual celebration of Burns Night - a time to celebrate Scotland's favourite son, and world renowned poet and song writer Robert Burns who was born on this day 1759.

I have covered Oor Rabbie on may occasions so on this day I hope to bring you a few facts about Scotland's National Bard and his legacy.

Known as somewhat of a ladies man, Burns is known to have fathered 12 or 13 children, depending on the source, to 4 different women. His last born child, Maxwell, was born on the same day as his funeral 25 July 1796, meaning his wife Jean Armour missed his send off.

As a lad growing up in Ayrshire, Burns was always fond of supernatural stories, most of which were told to him by an old widow who helped out on his father's farm. These stories no doubt had an influence on his writings in the future and perhaps were the inspiration for his classic masterpiece, Tam O'Shanter and the lesser known Adress to the Deil and Halloween. Even in these poems he flattered the fairer sex with his words, this from the latter poem.....

The lasses feat, an' cleanly neat, Mair braw than when they're fine; Their faces blythe, fu' sweetly kythe, Hearts leal, an' warm, an' kin':

Of course Burns also gives another of his favourite subjects a mention in this verse, "the deil himsel," Look it up it's another guid yin!

Burns didn't always want to stay in Scotland - he hoped to move to the Caribbean island of Jamaica. Although following the success of his poetry collection 'Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect' (or the Kilmarnock Edition as it is known), he opted to move closer to home, settling in Edinburgh for a time.

For all his fame, Burns never forgot his humble roots. His love for farming stayed with him throughout his life and his writing often dealt with issues affecting the poorer classes, notably highlighting the need for greater social equality. Indeed he is known as the Ploughman Poet, a nod to his farming life.

And on his legacy, Burns has gathered some very famous fans since his passing, US president Abraham Lincoln could recite Burns’ works by heart. Bob Dylan says that ‘A Red, Red Rose’ by Burns is his source of greatest creative inspiration and Michael Jackson song Thriller is said to have been inspired by Tam O'Shanter.

In Japan at pedestrian crossing you don't get beeps like here in Scotland, they play a rendition of the Burns song ‘Coming Through The Rye’.

There are more statues in honour of Rabbie than any other male figure in history, only surpassed in total by Queen Victoria. (I am not including religious statues).

In 2005 Robert Burns was the first person ever to feature on a bottle of Coca Cola, about a million were made they currently trade for around £10 and I have one, unopened in my kitchen cupboard.

Arguably Burns most famous song, Auld Lang Syne, has appeared in over 170 Hollywood films including The Apartment, It’s A Wonderful Life and When Harry Met Sally. , but he only rewrote the verse, he sent the poem to the Scots Musical Museum in 1788 indicating that it was an ancient song but that he'd been the first to record it on paper. The phrase 'auld lang syne' roughly translates as 'for old times' sake', and the song is all about preserving old friendships and looking back over the events of the year.

In the US city of Atlanta, there is a life-size imitation of Burns’ first home in Alloway, South Ayrshire, although it doesn't have the famous thatched roof.

In Scotland, there are some 20 official Burns memorials dotted around the country, from Aberdeen to the final resting place of Burns in Dumfries, which commemorate his journey from Ayrshire to “Auld Lang Syne”.

‘My Heart’s in the Highlands’ was translated and adopted as the marching song of the Chinese resistance fighter in the Second World War.

In 2009 STV viewers voted Robert Burns ‘The Great Scot’, beating the likes of William Wallace, Robert the Bruce among others.

There are Burns Clubs scattered across the globe, but the very first one, known as The Mother's Club, was founded in Greenock in 1801. They held the very first Burns Supper on what they thought was his birthday, January 29th 1802, only to discover that his birthday was actually January 25th!

Since then Burns suppers have been held worldwide.

I know some of you out there will toil to understand some of Burns's poetry, don't fear you will find the Best of Robert Burns, translated into the "de'il's tongue" just Click here...

The song Ae Fond Kiss, was one of my mums favourites the words "Never met-or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted" are inscribed on her grave......"

#scotland #scottish #history #makar #poet #Farmer #Ploughman #National poet #Robrt Burn

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