Yesterday my mother turned 88, and it was the first birthday she spent without my father in 65 years. I found the following poem that he wrote when they were classmates at Carleton College and he was courting her. It’s written in imitation of Robert Burns and, while I don’t understand every line, I find it wonderfully romantic.
My father was an enthusiastic bird watcher and in the poem he imagines he is a male bird longing for “the Phoebe bird,” Phoebe being my mother’s name. Echoing the bawdy 17th century Scottish song “Ken ye na our lass Bess,” (“do you not know our lass Bess”), the speaker complains that the Phoebe-bird has a heart “o’ meikle stone” (of great stone), causing him to waste away. The two were actually dating at the time, but may father may be imagining himself as the spurned lover to psychologically guard against a potential rejection–especially since the poem is the first time he mentioned being in love.
I think that the “it” in the first stanza is the male bird while the “it” in the second is the female. In the second, the speaker laments that the Phoebe-bird cares not a whit for romantic moonlit nights although she does love the water (a reference to my mother’s love of swimming) and playing the piano (with her “claes” or claws). I’m not sure what “crae” means but the prospect that the Phoebe-bird will stretch its wings—presumably to fly away with the male—unfortunately appears to be the stuff of which dreams are made.
But despite her not responding to him, the speaker will “luve thee yet, my Phoebe-bird.” Each feather (?) has been stirred and he is “nigh a-crawlin’.” And though this “bonny fluff” knows she is loved and she alone (“the ither birds may gae to Hell”), she’ll never let on that she hears (‘hist”) his calling.
Fortunately, the real life Phoebe-bird did not have “a heart o’ meikle stane” and responded positively to my father’s bird’s calls, in verse and otherwise. The sequel was a great love story.
Happy birthday, mama.
Phoebe Song
By Scott Bates
Ken ye na the Phoebe-bird
When Spring’s arrivin’
An’ mony beasties may be heard
On luve a-thrivin’?
Och, it maun fast fra’ day to day
An’ watch the sleekit birds at play–
I canna see it waste away
Wi’ cauld connivin’!
It cares nae whistle fa’ the nicht
An’ moonlicht beamin’
Tho’ where there’s sun it luves the sicht
O’ water gleamin’;
Wi’out its claes it niver sings,
It’s a’ways doin’ mickle things,
But wad it crae an’ stretch its wings?
Nae, lad, ye’re dreamin’!
I love thee yet, my Phoebe-bird,
Noo winter’s fallin’;
Ilka fither ha’ my heart stirred
An’ nigh a-crawlin’;
An’ tho’ ye wist ye’ll niver tell,
Thou bonny fluff, ye ken fu’ well
The ither birds may gae to Hell,
I’ll hist thy callin’!
One final note. My mother says that my father used to get her up early to go bird watching in Carleton’s lovely arboretum. Her one complaint was that they actually went bird watching.
