A Toast to the Lassies, as delivered by Paul Statt, at the Ninth Burns Supper, in Nutley, New Jersey, on 30 January, 1999.

First let me thank our lovely and talented host, Connie, and also our lovely and talented chairman Bennett. I am especially grateful to Bennett. It is an act of great faith to ask a man attending his first Burns Supper, and as ignorant as I am of Robert Burns, to give "The Toast to the Lassies."

But Bennett knows how well qualified I am to toast the lassies, despite my ignorance of Burns. Yes, he knows, as we're of the same vintage, how well I love the trusty thrifty brave and reverent, the well-loved, the cross-dressing dog of our youthful first days of television: Lassie.



Is that not the Lassie I'm to toast? Oh dear - I have made a grave mistake. Can I get out of it?

It will not be easy. I've not learned much in my life with those lassies, but I made this rule: Never compare a woman to a dog.

Personally, I don't know why women should be so sensitive. Dogs are loving, honest, intelligent creatures. They give us much, and expect little back.

Burns loved dogs:

"He was a gash an' faithful tyke,
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke.
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face
Ay gat him friends in ilk place;
His breast was white, his tousie back
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black;
His gawsie tail, wi' upward curl,
Hung owre his hurdies wi' a swirl."
(The Twa Dogs)

But why should this be, really? Why shouldn't women like being compared to dogs? Is there really anything more or less natural, more or less fitting, or more or less flattering about the comparison to "a gash and faithfu' tyke" than to

"...a red red rose
That's newly sprung in June.
O my luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly played in tune."
(My Luve Is Like a Red, Red Rose)

Or why should I not be reminded of my love when I look upon a dear sweet animal , if ...

"I see her in the dewy flowers -
I see her sweet and fair.
I hear her in the tunefu' birds -
I hear her charm the air.
There's not a bonie flower that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green,
There's not a bonie bird that sings,
But minds me o' my Jean"
(Of a' the Airts)

"My Jean," of course, would be Jean Armour, the poet's wife. Before she became his sulky sullen dame, she was one of the "Mauchline Belles," whom I wish I had known.

"In Mauchline there dwells six proper young belles,
The pride of the place and its neighborhood a',
Their carriage and dress, a stranger would guess,
In Lon'on or Paris they'd gotten it a'.

Miss Millar is fine, Miss Markland's divine,
Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw,
There's beauty and fortune to get with Miss Morton;
But Armour's the jewel for me o' them a'."
(The Belles of Mauchline)

Even the kind of cursory examination of the literature as this poor Burns scholar may muster reveals a wealth of learned inquiry that basically asks the question: "What did he see in her?" I don't know.

Burns loved his wife. Consider the meaning of that, for the poet.

It is not as Byron appraised a love poet he thought great: "Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife/ He would have written sonnets all his life?"

Burns also loved his dog. But he did not compare his wife to a dog.

And yet, the story is told, if not believed by all, of Burns's first meeting Jean Armour. Burns was a shy young farm boy living in Mauchline, who had been taking dancing lessons to improve his poise, and perhaps to meet girls.

On the eve of the Mauchline Races, Burns walked to a dance, and was shyly standing against the wall, when his faithful collie dog, who had followed him, came in. As he removed the dog, Burns was heard to remark that he wished he could find a lass who would love him as faithfully as his dog did.

Evidently Jean Armour overheard. The next day, she was laying out some linens on the bleaching green, when Burns and his dog passed by. The dog began to run across the clean washing, but he was a good dog and returned to Burns when called. Jean made so bold to ask him "if he had found a lass to love as his dog did" yet, and the rest, as they say, is history.

To love a dog is a simple thing: a walk in the park. But to love a lassie - that calls for some careful stepping and dancing, if not several years of painful lessons. Burns wrote of his feelings of awe for women:

"I look on the sex with something like the
admiration with which I regard the starry sky
in a frosty December night. I admire the beauty
of the Creator's workmanship; I am charmed
with the wild but graceful eccentricity of their
motions, and - wish them good- night."
(Letter to Miss Chalmers, Sept 23, 1787)

And still, Burns noted, there's a kind of rough pride, a kind of tender laughter, that we men take in these mysterious creatures - the kind of rough pride that Burns took in himself, his cold dark land, his collie dog, his sharp-witted mother, his bastard bairns, and even in his wife:

Burns makes me proud to be a man, for a' that, and I think that a woman could take the same pride in being a woman: a woman's a woman, for a' that.

"Tho' women's minds like winter winds
May shift, and turn, and a' that,
The noblest breast adores them maist -
A consequence, I draw that.
...
Their tricks an' craft hae put daft,
They've ta'en me in and a' that,
But clear your decks, and here's: - 'The Sex?'
I like the jads for a' that."
(Tho' Women's Minds)

Riposte to the Boast
by Julie Smith

Scot, I am not, but Lass I am.
Thanks, my Ladd, my Carl , my lamb,
For the toast -well meant and well-deserved -
For all bonnie lasses, well-preserved.

And on a cold and dreary night
Alane a Lass dreams a bonnie sight
A bainie Scot in kilt is clad,
Voice low in song, a ballat glad.

Atween a Lass and Ladd, love is wed,
Hearts fly like a Bizzardgled
Baith feel the birr and face the bit ,
Smiles on faces, eyes Burns-lit.

We'll recognize Ladds and honor you, too.
You have your purpose: so many girls like us to woo.
Marriage, wadset , bairns' mayhem, Mither's lament;
Hot kisses can lead to love permanent.

So Ladds, honor the Thistle, Scotland, and the Bard
Eat Haggis, drink Scotch, and Highland Games play hard.
But the bonnie Lasses, to them don't be a coof,
Forget them not, nor be aloof.

And the Lasses, we will make it worth your toil,
You'll feel the warmth, your blood will boil.
Your eyes will shine, your pipes will sing
So to our Ladds, let a' the bells ring.

AToast to the Twa Lands is an often observed tradition at Canadian Burns Suppers. It is meant to express the gratitude of Scottish immigrants to the welcoming shores of a new land, while looking back to Alba with fond sentiment. Angela Luciani, who lives above the Arctic Circle in Northwest Territories, Canada, sent this one our way.

Epigram on Rough Roads
(between Kilmarnock and Stewarton)

I'm now arrived, thanks to the gods! -
Thro' pathways rough and muddy,
A certain sign that making roads
Is not this people's study:
And tho' I'm not with scripture crammed,
I'm sure the bible says
That heedless sinners shall be damned
Unless they mend their ways.

Fareweel my rhyme composing billie!
Your native soil was right ill willie;
But may ye flourish like a lily,
Now, bonnilie!
I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie
Tho' owre the sea.