Auld Lang Syne.
		I was born in Alloway, a small town in Scotland near Ayr, on January 25th, 1759. Dad valued the importance of education though he had never set foot inside a school, and pulled some strings that enrolled me in several respected schools throughout my teenage years. In hindsight, however, the genuine interest Dad had in listening to me read to him each night helped more than the formal teachings. He patiently sat while I recited large volumes of English literature classics, and even a few in French. I was forced to work long days on the farm as financial worries turned to desperation in my late teens, and my thin body never fully recovered. When Dad died in 1784, I rented a farm known as Mossgiel with my brother Gilbert. His passing left me lonely and angry, and during the next decade I had eight illegitimate children by five different mothers. One of these women, Jean Armour, agreed to be my wife. I hated farming, and not just because it provided a pitiful income. Working the land demanded dedication from the body, leaving the mind to sit lazily by from dawn to dusk with nothing to do. I made up my mind to leave Scotland and emigrate to Jamaica, deciding that a life of poverty was better spent under sunny skies than the bleak Scottish countryside. To raise the necessary funds, I published a book of poems that was surprisingly well received. News of my talent reached Ayr and my wife's family who, until then, had declared me unworthy of her devotion. They suddenly sent letters of praise and expensive gifts, and soon after Jean joined me in Edinburg, England. The decisions we make in life are usually hasty and poorly planned. Only in later years do we look back and say to ourselves, "I should have chose a different path." Intelligent men and women of society, after studying the fates of those like myself, rationalize our footsteps sympathetically. They declare that humans are creatures of habit who naturally seek out professions they became skilled at during their youth. These experts in psychology and human behavior, God bless them, assure us that hindsight is one hundred percent, and that only while staring death in the face can someone truly put their past in perspective. The decison to take up farming once again after years of failure is one such subject of debate among such historians. During the next three years I became discouraged to the point of despair. My estate's worth depreciated even though I worked harder. In my spare time, a rare luxury, I committed to studying Scottish lyric and verse from the past. I found their soothing melodies a welcome alternative to thinking about the business of farming. I replaced certain verses with words from my own emotionally-taxed imagination. My pale face hovered over journal pages late into the night as I penned the words that would get me through the following day. Johnson's "Musical Museum" sent a messenger one afternoon. The letter was from a man who had come across the revised version of a song he was familiar with. After visiting many towns, he had finally traced the origin of those words to a struggling farmer in Edinburg. The museum couldn't afford to pay me, it read, but would welcome any material I saw fit to offer. I feverishly gathered song lyrics while a neighbouring pianist translated the corresponding tune. I was never paid for any submissions to the museum even though most became cornerstone exhibits. This continued for the last nine years of my life. In total, I contributed 150 songs that combined to form five volumes entitled "The Scottish Musical Museum". I moved with my wife to Mauchline and produced two non-related collections of poems, each of which earned me not one red cent. Many of my later verses focussed on human equality as I became disgusted by the aristocrats of society and the pawns that served them. A year later, while my wife Jean was giving birth to our ninth child, I died of rheumatic fever and was buried at the St. Michael's churchyard in Dumfries. If you're as familiar as I am with the Archive's collection of Hawk Talks, you'll agree that rarely are influential men and women of the past given credit for their accomplishments until they are dead. So is the case with me. My poems and lyrically-altered songs gained international popularity in the decades and centuries following my death. Most English scholars today are familiar with my name, even though I lived anonymously. My name is Robert Burns- not the colorful English teacher at B.M.H.S., although in life he is more celebrated- and I denied my true calling until my dying breath. I wrote the New Year's Eve ballad, entitled "Auld Lang Syne", that rings throughout the world with each calendar year's end, though most of you only know it's tune. Inspiring you to smile and kiss one another during those first seconds of each new year remains my proud legacy. Happy New Year, Hawk Roaders!
		Visit my other links: Auld Lang Syne II