IT’S January and Scots is in the cauld air.

Aye, it’s soon Burns nicht and the shops are fillin up wi haggis as mony o’ us are getting ready fir a Burns supper or twa. Oor bairns are learnin a wee poem or sang in Scots, tae celebrate Rabbie Burns’ birthday on January 25, and oan ma walk hame frae school wi ma son Lewis, he telt me some of the Scots words and songs he’s learning. I asked if his teacher has shared any stories in Scots, and he said aye, Pandora’s Box.

“That isnae a Scots story,” I said, “it’s frae Greek mythology.”

“Well it was certainly in Scots when we listened to it on the internet,” rebuked my son.

It triggered a discussion aboot Rabbie Burns and why schools study the Scots language in January. Ma son, wha’s just hud his ninth birthday, asked me why we celebrate a birthday o’ Rabbie Burns wha’s bin sae lang deid.

“He may be deid,” I explained, “but his poetry and sangs huv made him immortal, and they hae stories connected tae them.”

He asked me if I cud tae tell him some o’ the stories.

Sae we hud a session o’ ‘Burns Tales’ when we got intae the hoose; the tale o’ the wee mouse, and the tale o’ the louse, the tale of Tam o’ Shanter and his mare, and o’ the lassies whose heairts he made sair.

“A poet is a kind of storyteller then?” reflected ma wise young son.

“Aye,” I said, “he saw a story in everyday things, but he alsae kent lots o’ tales and sangs frae the time he wis young.”

“Where did he get the stories from, did he read lots of comic books and watch movies like me?”

“He read some books, aye, but screens didnae exist in thae days, nae DVDs, nae Netflix, nae ipads or phones.”

“No internet?”

“Nae internet.”

Ma son looked up tae the cloods incredulous, trying tae imagine such a time. I cud see his thochts collect intae a question.

“So, he got his stories from books and his imagination then?”

“Aye, but he got his inspiration in his childhood frae his mither Agnes Broun. She’s buried in East Lothian ye ken, in a place ca’d Bolton. We walked there once frae Haddington, that day ye got yer feet wet.”

Tae be fair, that didnae narrow it doon much in his memory.

“She was a braw singer wi a lovely voice. She couldnae write and cud only read a wee bit, but she kent a pile of sangs and ballads and remembered the words by heairt. When Burns wis a wee laddie grawin up, the hoose wis fu o his mother’s singing. Rabbie wud ask her tae sing his favourites.”

“Like we do with Alexa?”

“Aye, Rabbie Burns didnae need an Alexa, he hud his mither’s voice, and she learnt her sangs frae Jean Rainie.”

“Who was she?”

“She wis Agnes’s grandmither, her ma’s ma. Agnes went tae bide wi her when she wis 12 years auld. It’s a sad pairt o’ her life. Her ain mither died when she wis only 10. Her faither wasnae a caring sort, and sae Agnes had tae look aifter her wee siblings, then when he remarried, Agnes wis sent tae be wi her grandmother.”

“It sounds a bit like the Cinderella story,” observed Lewis.

“Aye it does, but her granny Jean looked aifter her weel, and sang every evenin tae her. Sae the young Agnes learnt the sangs, and how tae sing them. When she grew up and got married and hud bairns hersel, she’d sing the sangs her grandmother hud taught her while she wis aboot the hoose daeing a’ the things she hud tae do. She even sang tae the chickens and the coos.”

“Chickens and cows can’t sing,” joked Lewis.

“True, but they can enjoy listening, and let me tell ye, coos love singing and music, they’ll stand and listen, although I’m no sure chickens hae the attention span.”

“Next time we see cows, lets sing to them!”

“Aye, a Scots sang, as lang as there’s naebudy else arood!”

“So, Rabbie got all his inspiration from his mum,” said Lewis.

“Weel there wis alsae Betty, or Betsy, Richardson.”

“Who was she, then?”

“Weel she was a distant relative o’ Rabbie’s mither. Betty wis a widow and wud often stay and help oot, and she wis a braw storyteller. She’d tell Rabbie and his brithers and sisters stories in the evenin as they huddled roond the fireplace. She hud a’ kinds o’ stories. Burns himself said…”

At this point I hud tae gang ontae the internet to find Burns’ words: “In my infant and boyish days I owed much to an old maid of my mother’s. She had the largest collection in the county of tales and songs concerning devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, warlocks, spunkies, kelpies, elf-candles, dead-lightswraiths, apparitions, cantrains, giants, enchanted towers, dragons and other trumpery.”

“See, the internet is good sometimes!” remarked Lewis with a wry smile.

“You’re richt, but Rabbie didnae hae it when he wis your age, maybe just as weel, otherwise he’d be watching pointless TikToks insteed o’ listening tae his mither Agnes singin sangs and auld Betty tellin stories. His faimily were puir, but they were rich in a different way.”

“Suppose. Can I go on ma screen now dad?”

“Suppose.”

Later, I searched for Pandora’s Box in Scots and, to my surprise, I found it. My son was right. . . there is a version of the story in Scots on BBC Sounds!

Happy Burns Day when it comes, and here’s tae Agnes Broun, yaince a resident o’ oor county, and mither tae oor National Bard, and wha rests, wi pairt o’ her faimily, at Bolton Parish Kirkyaird.