Why is it that history always focusses on the one who got away? Okay, call me a sucker for the kind, dark, handsome type- but if Robbie Burns had told me it was a "Bra light, moon light moon light tonight" I'd barely understand, but I'd swoon right over.
I looked him up on Wikipedia and it says he was crazy about a lady named Eliza Burnett, another attractive person who died at an early age, and wrote her a letter saying that without her he could never be happy. But nowhere under the "Romantic Life" section, did W mention Burns's wife, who I seem to remember after this Eliza business was over and done with, he was married to for his entire life.
Oh how we all do love an unrequited fantasy. To the excellent reality of whoever Robbie Burns's actual wife was, since Wikipedia refuses to tell me, here is an ode for you:
My love, she's but a lassie yet,
My love, she's but a lassie yet;
We'll let her stand a year or twa,
I rue the day I sought her,
O! I rue the day I sought her,
O! Wha gets her needs na say she's woo'd,
But he may say he's bought her, O.
But she's my wife and I'm glad I married her.
I appreciate all the mundane things she does for me
See? I told you he was the kind, dark, handsome type. Or at least in my world he is.
No comments:
Post a Comment