Robert Burns' poem Halloween is a delightful snapshot of 18th-century Scottish life, offering a vivid, lively portrayal of the folk customs practiced during the October (or, on the old calendar, November) holiday.
But unlike the commercialized Halloween we often think of today, Burns takes us back to a time when the holiday was all about superstitions, fortune-telling, and celebrating community.
Written in 1785, Halloween captures a variety of activities that were common in rural Scotland during the festival, which originated in that area of the world. Because it had once been a Celtic New Year festival, many of the practices revolved around trying to glimpse the future -- particularly when it came to that eternal preoccupation of the human mind: love and marriage.
The poem is written in Scots dialect, which might be a bit of a challenge for many readers, but it’s also part of what makes it so authentic. Burns is preserving not just the practices of the time, but also the voices of the people who participated in them. Even if some lines need a little decoding, they add to the playful tone that runs through the work.
Burns’ poem opens with a narrator describing a rural Scottish gathering on Halloween night, with families and neighbors coming together to participate in a range of old folk rituals. Each of these rituals is meant to offer insight into the future, particularly in matters of the heart.
The beauty of Halloween lies in how it brings these everyday people and their simple hopes and anxieties to life. Burns’ tone is warm and humorous, painting his characters with affection and playfulness. It’s easy to imagine the laughter, the suspense, and the fun these people must have had, huddled together on a crisp autumn night, engaging in these quirky customs to try and catch a glimpse of their future.
One of the great things about Burns’ poem is how it makes us see Halloween in a somewhat different light. Today, we often think of it as a night of costumes, candy, and maybe slasher movies. But in Halloween, Burns shows us that it was also a time to gather, reflect, and dream about the future to come.
In writing his poem, Burns didn’t just document a few old customs. He created a time capsule of a moment in Scottish culture -- a moment when people gathered to celebrate the mysteries of life and love, when the veil between the present and the future seemed just a little bit thinner.
You can read a full version of the poem with commentary at this link. The poem itself is as follows.
Upon that night, when fairies light
On Cassilis Downans dance,
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze,
On sprightly coursers prance;
Or for Colean the route is ta’en,
Beneath the moon’s pale beams;
There, up the Cove, to stray an’ rove,
Among the rocks and streams
To sport that night;
Amang the bonie winding banks,
Where Doon rins, wimplin, clear,
Where Bruce ance rul’d the martial ranks,
And shook his Carrick spear;
Some merry, friendly, countra-folks,
Together did convene,
To burn their nits, an’ pou their stocks,
An’ haud their Halloween
Fu’ blithe that night.
The lasses feat, an’d’ cleanly neat,
Mair braw than when they’re fine;
Their faces blythe, fu’ sweetly kythe,
Hearts leal, and warm, and kin’;
The lads sae trig, wi’ wooer-babs,
Weel-knotted on their garten;
Some unco blate, an’d’ some wi’ gabs,
Gar lasses’ hearts gang startin
Whiles fast at night.
Then, first an’ foremost, thro’ the kail,
Their stocks maun a’ be sought ance;
They steek their een, and grape an’d’ wale,
For muckle anes, an’d’ straught anes.
Poor hav’rel Will fell aff the drift,
An’ wander’d through the bow-kail,
An’ pou’t for want o’ better shift
A runt was like a sow-tail,
Sae bow’t that night.
Then, staught or crooked, yird or nane,
They roar an’ cry a’ throu’ther;
The vera wee-things, toddlin, rin,
Wi’ stocks out owre their shouther;
An’ gif the custock’s sweet or sour.
Wi’ joctelegs they taste them;
Syne cozily, aboon the door,
Wi cannie care, they’ve placed them
To lie that night.
The lasses staw frae ‘mang them a’
To pou their stalks o’ corn:
But Rab slips out, an’ jinks about,
Behint the muckle thorn:
He grippet Nelly hard and fast:
Loud skirl’d a’ the lasses;
But her tap-pickle maist was lost,
Whan kiutlin’ in the fause-house
Wi’ him that night.
The auld guid-wife’s well-hoordit nits
Are round an’ round dividend,
An’ mony lads and lasses’ fates
Are there that night decided:
Some kindle coothie side by side,
And burn thegither trimly;
Some start awa wi’ saucy pride,
An’ jump out owre the chimlie
Fu’ high that night.
Jean slips in twa, wi’ tentie e’e;
Wha ’twas she wadna tell;
But this is Jock, and this is me,
She says in to hersel’:
He bleez’d owre her, an’ she owre him,
As they wad never mair part:
Till, fuff! he started up the lum,
And Jean had e’en a sair heart
To see’t that night.
Poor Willie, wi’ his bow-kail runt,
Was brunt wi’ primsie Mallie;
An’ Mary, nae doubt, took the drunt,
To be compar’d to Willie;
Mall’s nit lap out wi’ pridefu’ fling,
And her ain fit, it brunt it;
While Willie lap, and swore by jing,
‘Twas just the way he wanted
To be that night.
Nell had the fause-house in her min’,
She pits hersel an’ Rob in;
In loving bleeze they sweetly join,
Till white in ase they’re sobbin;
Nell’s heart was dancin’ at the view;
She whisper’d Rob to leuk for’t:
Rob, stowlins, prie’d her bonny mou’,
Fu’ cozie in the neuk for’t,
Unseen that night.
But Merran sat behint their backs,
Her thoughts on Andrew Bell:
She lea’es them gashin’ at their cracks,
And slips out by hersel’;
She thro’ the yard the nearest taks,
An’ for the kiln she goes then,
An’ darklins graipit for the bauks,
An’ in the blue-clue throws then,
Right fear’t that night.
An’ aye she win’t, an’ ay she swat
I wat she made nae jaukin,
Till something held within the pat,
Guid Lord! but she was quaukin!
But whether ‘was the deil himsel,
Or whether ’twas a bauk-en’,
Or whether it was Andrew Bell,
She didna wait on talkin
To spier that night.
Wee Jenny to her graunie says,
“Will ye go wi’ me, graunie?
I’ll eat the apple at the glass
I gat frae Uncle Johnie:”
She fuff’t her pipe wi’ sic a lunt,
In wrath she was sae vap’rin’,
She notice’t na, an aizle brunt
Her braw, new, worset apron
Out thro’ that night.
“Ye little skelpie-limmer’s face!
I daur you try sic sportin,
As seek the foul thief ony place,
For him to spae your fortune:
Nae doubt but ye may get a sight!
Great cause ye hae to fear it;
For mony a ane has gotten a fright,
And lived and died deleerit
On sic a night.
“Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moor,
I mind’t as weel’s yestreen
I was a gilpey then, I’m sure
I wasna past fifteen:
The simmer had been cauld an’ wat,
An’ stuff was unco green;
An’ aye a rantin’ kirn we gat,
An’ just on Halloween
It fell that night.
“Our stibble-rig was Rab M’Graen,
A clever sturdy fallow;
His son gat Eppie Sim wi’ wean,
That lived in Achmacalla:
He gat hemp-seed, I mind it weel,
An’ he made unco light o’t;
But mony a day was by himsel’,
He was sae sairly frighted
That vera night.”
Then up gat fechtin’ Jamie Fleck,
An’ he swoor by his conscience,
That he could saw hemp-seed a peck;
For it was a’ but nonsense:
The auld guidman raught down the pock,
An’ out a handfu’ gied him;
Syne bade him slip frae ‘mang the folk,
Sometime when nae ane see’d him,
An’ try’t that night.
He marches thro’ amang the stacks,
Tho’ he was something sturtin;
The graip he for a harrow taks.
An’ haurls it at his curpin:
And ev’ry now an’ then, he says,
“Hemp-seed I saw thee,
An’ her that is to be my lass,
Come after me, an’ draw thee
As fast this night.”
He wistl’d up Lord Lennox’ March
To keep his courage cherry;
Altho’ his hair began to arch,
He was say fley’d an’ eerie:
Till presently he hears a squeak,
An’ then a grane an’ gruntle;
He by his shouther gae a keek,
And tumbled wi’ a wintle
Out-owre that night.
He roar’d a horrid murder-shout,
In dreadfu’ desperation!
An’ young an’ auld come rinnin out
To hear the sad narration:
He swore ’twas hilchin Jean M’Craw,
Or crouchie Merran Humphie,
Till, stop! she trotted thro’ them a’;
And wha was it but grumphie
Asteer that night!
Meg fain wad to the barn hae gaen,
To win three wechts o’ naething;
But for to meet the deil her lane,
She pat but little faith in:
She gies the herd a pickle nits,
And two red-cheekit apples,
To watch, while for the barn she sets,
In hopes to see Tam Kipples
That vera night.
She turns the key wi cannie thraw,
An’ owre the threshold ventures;
But first on Sawnie gies a ca’,
Syne bauldly in she enters:
A ratton rattl’d up the wa’,
An’ she cry’d, Lord, preserve her!
An’ ran thro’ midden-hole an’ a’,
An’ pray’d wi’ zeal and fervour,
Fu’ fast that night.
They hoy’t out Will, wi’ sair advice;
They hecht him some fine braw ane;
It chanc’d the stack he faddom’d thrice
Was timmer-propt for thrawin;
He taks a swirlie, auld moss-oak
For some black, grousome carlin;
An’ loot a winze, an’ drew a stroke,
Till skin in blypes cam haurlin
Aff’s nieves that night.
A wanton widow Leezie was,
As cantie as a kittlen;
But, och! that night, amang the shaws,
She got a fearfu’ settlin!
She thro’ the whins, an’ by the cairn,
An’ owre the hill gaed scrievin,
Whare three lairds’ lan’s met at a burn,
To dip her left sark-sleeve in,
Was bent that night.
Whiles owre a linn the burnie plays,
As thro’ the glen it wimpl’t;
Whiles round a rocky scar it strays;
Whiles in a wiel it dimpl’t;
Whiles glitter’d to the nightly rays,
Wi’ bickering, dancin’ dazzle;
Whiles cookit undeneath the braes,
Below the spreading hazel,
Unseen that night.
Among the brackens, on the brae,
Between her an’ the moon,
The deil, or else an outler quey,
Gat up and gae a croon:
Poor Leezie’s heart maist lap the hool;
Near lav’rock-height she jumpit,
But mist a fit, an’ in the pool
Out-owre the lugs she plumpit,
Wi’ a plunge that night.
In order, on the clean hearth-stane,
The luggies three are ranged;
An’ ev’ry time great care is ta’en’
To see them duly changed:
Auld Uncle John, wha wedlock’s joys
Sin’ Mar’s year did desire,
Because he gat the toom dish thrice,
He heav’d them on the fire
In wrath that night.
Wi’ merry sangs, an’ friendly cracks,
I wat they did na weary;
And unco tales, an’ funnie jokes,
Their sports were cheap an’ cheery;
Till butter’d sowens, wi’ fragrant lunt,
Set a’ their gabs a-steerin’;
Syne, wi’ a social glass o’ strunt,
They parted aff careerin
Fu’ blythe that night.