First degree Burns

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I have touched the socks of Rabbie Burns. I have inspected them at very close quarters. I perceive that they would fit a small man with well-developed calf muscles. What’s more, I see that they are extensively darned at the heels.

Now, my holding Rabbie Burns’ stockings may not strike many as much of a feat; please forgive the pun. But think again. These may be the socks that were muddied and wet when ploughing up the 'wee tim'rous beastie' of To A Mouse. Still not impressed? In that case, consider that these hose might be the very same that he wore to woo the female inspiration for A Red, Red Rose. Still underwhelmed by my encounter with 18th century worsted toe-warmers? I suspected as much, reserving my best and Burns' greatest until last.

Dear reader, these may well be the socks that kept Robert Burns’ chilblains from throbbing on a winter night as he penned the immortal verses of Auld Lang Syne. Yes, now I see the dawn of knowledge alight in your eyes. You recall, I detect, many a New Year's Eve with glass in hand as bells peal, and the strains of a half-familiar song fill the air:

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and auld lang syne?

What I held so gingerly were the socks of the poet who wrote the most widely sung song in the English-speaking world after Happy Birthday. Scratch that on two counts. Many people sing Auld Lang Syne whose first language is not English. And the lyrics are not English. It is written, if not always sung, in the Scots language.

So you begin to see, I hope, that these are socks of some significance. Indeed, I would venture to say that we all are connected to these socks through the singing of a song that, quite literally, unites the world once every year. Burns would have been delighted. He was all for the brotherhood - and the sisterhood - of humankind.

Now that you are duly impressed, I will let you into a little secret: you can tell a lot about a world-class poet by looking closely at his socks.

First, Burns had socks of reasonable quality. As I said, they are shaped at the calf, as was the fashion. They have a beige trim. The wool is not so rough. You can tell that he had improved his station in society. In Burns’ day, a common labourer might have no socks to speak of. Burns had ambition to leave his plough behind. This much you can tell from the very existence of his socks.

Let us return to the heels. These are darned, with evidence of many repairs. You can imagine many long walks in ill-fitting shoes. You can sense a blister or two. This man had to make his own way on foot. The curator of the Burns Museum, David Hopes, said the darned Victorians meddled with Burns’ memorabilia and repaired the socks. In turn, they replaced previous work, perhaps by the poet’s wife Jean Armour.

Last, but most decidedly not least, we come to the shapely calves of Burns’ socks. These are not the leg warmers of some spindly society dandy. Burns was fit. The physical labour of his young life was not for naught. He was, in today’s parlance, buff. Hence, his socks betray one source of Burns’ attraction to the opposite sex: he had good legs.

These storytelling socks are now safely inside a protective glass case at the newly opened Burns Birthplace Museum in Alloway, Scotland. Of course, there’s much more than socks to be found in this £21 million storybook. There are Bibles, locks of hair, inkwells, desks, a cast of his skull and manuscripts of Auld Lang Syne, adding up to 5,000 items. Outside, the museum is linked by a sculpture walk to the churchyard where Burns set *Tam o’Shanter*, arguably the greatest ghost poem in British literature. You can visit the memorial erected after his death, the smallholding where he worked as a child and the humble whitewashed cottage where he was born.

The anniversary of Burns’ birthday, on the 25th of January 1759, is celebrated around the world. Auld Lang Syne is world famous. And yet, few people really understand what Burns was saying. Admit it - when was the last time you didn’t hum along to the last verse of the world’s party piece:

And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere!
and gie's a hand o’ thine!
And we’ll tak a right gude-willy waught,
for auld lang syne.

Fiere is a friend and a right gude-willy waught is a goodwill drink. Burns is strange that way; you may not know exactly what all the words mean but you know how they feel. That, in essence, is the process that the new Burns Museum seeks to reverse. You know how his songs and poems make you feel; here, you can find out what they really mean.

This is the first museum in the U.K. to be fully interpreted in Scots (though English translations are available.) Should auld acquaintance be forgot? Absolutely not. You should, at the very first opportunity, visit the new Burns Birthplace Museum and reacquaint yourself with the man behind the world’s favourite Scots words.