The Tree of Liberty

The Tree of Liberty

Written by Scotland's national bard, Robert Burns. 

 In 1785 Burns wrote about the tree of liberty, he imagined the fruit of France and America’s independence revolutions. He imagined such a tree might grow in Britain

HEARD ye o' the tree o' France,

I watna what 's the name o't;

Around it a' the patriots dance,

Weel Europe kens the fame o't.

It stands where ance the Bastile stood,

A prison built by kings, man,

When Superstition's hellish brood

Kept France in leading-strings, man.

Upo' this tree there grows sic fruit,

Its virtues a' can tell, man;

It raises man aboon the brute,

It mak's him ken himsel, man.

Gif ance the peasant taste a bit,

He 's greater than a lord, man,

An’ wi' the beggar shares a mite

O' a' he can afford, man.

This fruit is worth a' Afric's wealth:

To comfort us 'twas sent, man:

To gie the sweetest blush o' health,

An’ mak us a' content, man.

It clears the een, it cheers the heart,

Maks high and low gude friends, man;

And he wha acts the traitor's part,

It to perdition sends, man.

My blessings aye attend the chiel

Wha pitied Gallia's slaves, man,

And staw a branch, spite o' the deil,

Frae yont the western waves, man.

Fair Virtue water'd it wi' care,

And now she sees wi' pride, man,

How weel it buds and blossoms there,

Its branches spreading wide, man.

But vicious folk aye hate to see

The works o' Virtue thrive, man;

The courtly vermin 's bann'd the tree,

And grat to see it thrive, man;

King Loui’ thought to cut it down,

When it was unco sma', man;

For this the watchman crack'd his crown,

Cut aff his head and a', man.

A wicked crew syne, on a time,

Did tak a solemn aith, man,

It ne'er should flourish to its prime,

I wat they pledged their faith, man.

Awa’ they gaed wi' mock parade,

Like beagles hunting game, man,

But soon grew weary o' the trade

And wished they'd been at hame, man.

For Freedom, standing by the tree,

Her sons did loudly ca', man.

She sang a sang o' liberty,

Which pleased them ane and a', man.

By her inspired, the new-born race

Soon drew the avenging steel, man;

The hirelings ran--------her foes gied chase,

And banged the despot weel, man.

Let Britain boast her hardy oak,

Her poplar and her pine, man,

Auld Britain ance could crack her joke,

And o'er her neighbours shine, man.

But seek the forest round and round,

And soon 'twill be agreed, man,

That sic a tree can not be found,

'Twixt London and the Tweed, man.

Without this tree alake this life

Is but a vale o' woe, man;

A scene o' sorrow mixed wi' strife,

Nae real joys we know, man.

We labour soon, we labour late,

To feed the titled knave, man;

And a' the comfort we 're to get,

Is that ayont the grave, man.

Wi' plenty o' sic trees, I trow,

The warld would live in peace, man;

The sword would help to mak a plough,

The din o' war wad cease, man.

Like brethren in a common cause,

We'd on each other smile, man;

And equal rights and equal laws

Wad gladden every isle, man.

Wae worth the loon wha wadna eat

Sic halesome dainty cheer, man;

I'd gie the shoon frae aff my feet,

To taste sic fruit, I SWEAR, man.

Syne let us pray, auld England may

Sure plant this far-famed tree, man;

And blythe we'll sing, and hail the day

That gives us liberty, man.

For the 96

For the 96

There you are in your big shiny coat

Buttoned up and blue,

Your smile wider than it needs to be,

Your eyes twinkling far too brightly

And we don’t believe anymore. 

The dreams have shattered on the large wooden floors

In the tweets and posts you never dreamt of.

For 27 years, Liverpool sought some answers for its dead

But not forgotten in song. 

And they sang of the 96 -

Justice for the 96.

Who lost their lives one Saturday

Football game

When pitches became a burial ground

And faces stood in shock for -

The lost 96.

The lies that were spun

Left webs of deceit.

We knew them all -

We were too scared to believe

At all.

And the voices all rang strong and true -

For the 96.

Some Irish voices too.

You will never walk alone the voices sang

For justice and for truth -

As long as you walk

With hope in your heart.

For the 96 -

Never forgotten. 

TS Eliot -The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

I learnt of TS Eliot recently - a talk by Robert Crawford on his Biography 'Young Eliot'.at Edinburgh International book festival 2015.... I am inspired by his incredible poem.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

BY T. S. ELIOT

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse 
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, 
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. 
Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo 
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero, 
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherized upon a table;

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question ...

Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”

Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,

The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,

Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,

Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,

Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,

Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,

And seeing that it was a soft October night,

Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time

For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,

Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time

To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”

Time to turn back and descend the stair,

With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —

(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)

My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,

My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin —

(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)

Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

I know the voices dying with a dying fall

Beneath the music from a farther room.

               So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—

The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,

And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,

When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,

Then how should I begin

To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?

               And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—

Arms that are braceleted and white and bare

(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)

Is it perfume from a dress

That makes me so digress?

Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.

               And should I then presume?

               And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets

And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes

Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ...

I should have been a pair of ragged claws

Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!

Smoothed by long fingers,

Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,

Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,

Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,

Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,

I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter;

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,

After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,

Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,

Would it have been worth while,

To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

To have squeezed the universe into a ball

To roll it towards some overwhelming question,

To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,

Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—

If one, settling a pillow by her head

               Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;

               That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,

Would it have been worth while,

After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,

After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—

And this, and so much more?—

It is impossible to say just what I mean!

But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:

Would it have been worth while

If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,

And turning toward the window, should say:

               “That is not it at all,

               That is not what I meant, at all.”

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

Am an attendant lord, one that will do

To swell a progress, start a scene or two,

Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,

Deferential, glad to be of use,

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—

Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old ... I grow old ...

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind?   Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves

Combing the white hair of the waves blown back

When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.