Explaining the happiness to my daughter
Drinking is one of a common habit in United Kingdom. In Scotland the international drink is the whiskey. To write the poem Scotch Drink, Robbie Burns has started from a glass of whiskey to praise the simple life. He assured that is possible be happy with small things, in a poor life. He was not the first one: in the childhood literature, there are many novels telling about this central topic: From Pollyanna and her game – researching a positive point of view in every situation – to St. Francesco – who refused all his heritage to live poorly in the nature.
The glass of whiskey used to take the poet to speak directly with his fellows who choose to drink other kind of foreign alcoholic drinks. He is absolutely in love with his land, Scotland, and he demonstrated this affection writing his poems in Scots.
Scotch Drink tells the reader also an important secret for all the people who have the dream to become a writer: Burns demonstrated that he knows at the beginning what it was the message to send with that poem and how It will end.
Honestly, my honey daughter, I don’t have an important sentence to tells you about happiness. Many writers, as I already told you, wrote about it, and I wants you will discover personally each of them during your life. I can suggest with my previous experience a sentence that your auntie Sara wrote as a message in a phone application: “happiness is a journey, not a destination”. I can also tell you, quoting B.P., the creator of the scouting movement, that
“the real way to get happiness is by giving out happiness to other people. Try and leave this world a little better than you found it and when your turn comes to die, you can die happy in feeling that at any rate you have not wasted your time but have done your best.
All these authors, and many others, are right. As you can immediately notice, it is hard speaking about it, even because happiness for each of us has a different colour. I can leave you some memories in which I felt I was happy in the past, and with your father I hope to build many memories with you as the main character.
For instead, I was happy when I met for the first time your father, and when he asked me to be his wife and the mother of his children, starting from you.
I was happy when I listened for the first time your heart inside me, when I see you in the first scan and when I hug you for the first time when you were born.
I am happy every moment in which you sleep on my body.
I am happy when your daddy gives me a kiss or a hug.
I am happy when I am writing in our home, with you on my side.
The smell of the onions when I am preparing a ratatouille at twelve while the television broadcasts such Italian movies like Don Matteo or La signora in giallo switch on me ancient memories of happiness.
Robbie Burns has right: to be happy in this life is easier than anyone can think. It is easy as drink a glass of whiskey. No, you understand well: is not easy as drink a glass of water, but a glass of whiskey.
Indeed, when you start to drink for the first time a whiskey, it is hard to keep the balance with the amount of it, but once you are used to do it, you will enjoy everything the life give you day by day.
The most important thing that you must remember is to take the life easy and not be in a hurry, because, as whiskey, life runs away in a while.
Gie him strong drink until he wink, That's sinking in despair; An' liquor guid to fire his bluid, That's prest wi' grief and care: There let him bouse, an' deep carouse, Wi' bumpers flowing o'er, Till he forgets his loves or debts, An' minds his griefs no more.
Solomon's Proverbs, xxxi. 6, 7.
Let other poets raise a fracas "Bout vines, an' wines, an' drucken Bacchus, An' crabbit names an'stories wrack us, An' grate our lug: I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us, In glass or jug. O thou, my muse! guid auld Scotch drink! Whether thro' wimplin worms thou jink, Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink, In glorious faem, Inspire me, till I lisp an' wink, To sing thy name! Let husky wheat the haughs adorn, An' aits set up their awnie horn, An' pease and beans, at e'en or morn, Perfume the plain: Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, Thou king o' grain! On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, In souple scones, the wale o'food! Or tumblin in the boiling flood Wi' kail an' beef; But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood, There thou shines chief. Food fills the wame, an' keeps us leevin; Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin, When heavy-dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin; But, oil'd by thee, The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin, Wi' rattlin glee. Thou clears the head o'doited Lear; Thou cheers ahe heart o' drooping Care; Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair, At's weary toil; Though even brightens dark Despair Wi' gloomy smile. Aft, clad in massy siller weed, Wi' gentles thou erects thy head; Yet, humbly kind in time o' need, The poor man's wine; His weep drap parritch, or his bread, Thou kitchens fine. Thou art the life o' public haunts; But thee, what were our fairs and rants? Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts, By thee inspired, When gaping they besiege the tents, Are doubly fir'd. That merry night we get the corn in, O sweetly, then, thou reams the horn in! Or reekin on a New-year mornin In cog or bicker, An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in, An' gusty sucker! When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith, O rare! to see thee fizz an freath I' th' luggit caup! Then Burnewin comes on like death At every chap. Nae mercy then, for airn or steel; The brawnie, banie, ploughman chiel, Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel, The strong forehammer, Till block an' studdie ring an reel, Wi' dinsome clamour. When skirling weanies see the light, Though maks the gossips clatter bright, How fumblin' cuiffs their dearies slight; Wae worth the name! Nae howdie gets a social night, Or plack frae them. When neibors anger at a plea, An' just as wud as wud can be, How easy can the barley brie Cement the quarrel! It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee, To taste the barrel. Alake! that e'er my muse has reason, To wyte her countrymen wi' treason! But mony daily weet their weason Wi' liquors nice, An' hardly, in a winter season, E'er Spier her price. Wae worth that brandy, burnin trash! Fell source o' mony a pain an' brash! Twins mony a poor, doylt, drucken hash, O' half his days; An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash To her warst faes. Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well! Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, Poor, plackless devils like mysel'! It sets you ill, Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell, Or foreign gill. May gravels round his blather wrench, An' gouts torment him, inch by inch, What twists his gruntle wi' a glunch O' sour disdain, Out owre a glass o' whisky-punch Wi' honest men! O Whisky! soul o' plays and pranks! Accept a bardie's gratfu' thanks! When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks Are my poor verses! Thou comes-they rattle in their ranks, At ither's a-s! Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost! Scotland lament frae coast to coast! Now colic grips, an' barkin hoast May kill us a'; For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast Is ta'en awa? Thae curst horse-leeches o' the' Excise, Wha mak the whisky stells their prize! Haud up thy han', Deil! ance, twice, thrice! There, seize the blinkers! An' bake them up in brunstane pies For poor damn'd drinkers. Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still Hale breeks, a scone, an' whisky gill, An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will, Tak a' the rest, An' deal't about as thy blind skill Directs thee best.