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witticasterI think I managed to include what is becoming the Woolfverse go-to Foreign Phrase. I am amused that it has one in the first place. This is sometime in the mid-90s, when they've just moved in together.
Archie stared at him with an incredulous expression. "What do you mean, you don't know any Robert Burns?"
"That I don't know any," William answered calmly, and took another bite of his breakfast. "I thought that much was obvious."
Archie rolled his eyes. "Everyone knows some Robert Burns, you sang 'Auld Lang Syne' with the rest of us at New Year's."
"Oh, is that by him?" Stifling a smile, for it was occasionally difficult to resist baiting Archie into giving affected sighs and despairing over him, William finished off his cereal.
He was setting the bowl in the sink when he felt a hand on his wrist. "Come here," Archie said, pulling him toward their bedroom. "We need to educate you."
Like a child, he was led over to the bookshelf, so Archie could pull out a slim, leatherbound volume, and then to their bed. What precisely he was expected to gain from this, William was not sure, but he settled himself on the bed next to Archie and waited expectantly all the same.
"Of course, you have to put on an accent to appreciate Burns properly." Archie began flipping pages through the book, and then, in a brogue so thick William was not precisely sure he understood it, "'This chiel will pay for aa' and all that."
"Is that your real accent?" William ventured, and received a laugh in response.
"They're all my real accent. But Christ, no, nobody talks like that anymore. When I'm at home, I talk more like--" and he lay back against William's shoulder, William moving to put an arm around him, "more like this, but Burns wrote in Scots, so you have to--to dramatize, a bit. Here, here we are."
William reached a hand up for one of Archie's, drawing it down from the book and interlacing their fingers. Any iteration of Archie's voice was pleasant to listen to, and this latest one particularly so, for it lilted in ways the accent he employed most days did not.
"Contented wi' little and cantie wi' mair," Archie read, halfway between the accent he claimed particularly as his own and the one he'd put on for a laugh, and held the book so William could read along, "Whene'er I forgather wi' Sorrow and Care / I gie them a skelp, as they're creepin' alang / Wi' a cog o' guid swats and an auld Scottish sang."
It went in such a manner for several more verses: charming to the ear but often insensible to the mind for William, whose mind for dialectal English was nearly as strong as his mind for maths. When Archie had finished, he paused a moment, then looked up at William and asked, "Did you like that?"
"Yes," he answered, truthfully, and feeling somewhat the idiot, asked, "Now what does it mean?"
Archie made a hmm-ing noise before saying, "It means--he bears his troubles the best he can, by thinking on what he has." Before William could formulate a reply, Archie set the book aside. "But I think we might have to try a more...interactive method of teaching you."
"Hm?" William asked, but Archie shook his head and sat up, putting a hand against William's chest when he tried to follow suit. With an almost feline smile, Archie moved to straddle him where he lay; William was left to watch as Archie divested himself of his t-shirt, and to have his hands slapped playfully away when he attempted to help.
Running his hands underneath William's own nightshirt and up his chest, Archie leaned in, this time not reciting the words but singing them. His voice was quiet, and, William felt, perfectly nice, especially when the words were formed in the warm air against his jaw. "And I'll kiss thee yet, yet / And I'll kiss thee o'er again / And I'll kiss thee yet, yet / My bonie William Alison."
The value of Scottish poetry suddenly began to come clear.
Archie stared at him with an incredulous expression. "What do you mean, you don't know any Robert Burns?"
"That I don't know any," William answered calmly, and took another bite of his breakfast. "I thought that much was obvious."
Archie rolled his eyes. "Everyone knows some Robert Burns, you sang 'Auld Lang Syne' with the rest of us at New Year's."
"Oh, is that by him?" Stifling a smile, for it was occasionally difficult to resist baiting Archie into giving affected sighs and despairing over him, William finished off his cereal.
He was setting the bowl in the sink when he felt a hand on his wrist. "Come here," Archie said, pulling him toward their bedroom. "We need to educate you."
Like a child, he was led over to the bookshelf, so Archie could pull out a slim, leatherbound volume, and then to their bed. What precisely he was expected to gain from this, William was not sure, but he settled himself on the bed next to Archie and waited expectantly all the same.
"Of course, you have to put on an accent to appreciate Burns properly." Archie began flipping pages through the book, and then, in a brogue so thick William was not precisely sure he understood it, "'This chiel will pay for aa' and all that."
"Is that your real accent?" William ventured, and received a laugh in response.
"They're all my real accent. But Christ, no, nobody talks like that anymore. When I'm at home, I talk more like--" and he lay back against William's shoulder, William moving to put an arm around him, "more like this, but Burns wrote in Scots, so you have to--to dramatize, a bit. Here, here we are."
William reached a hand up for one of Archie's, drawing it down from the book and interlacing their fingers. Any iteration of Archie's voice was pleasant to listen to, and this latest one particularly so, for it lilted in ways the accent he employed most days did not.
"Contented wi' little and cantie wi' mair," Archie read, halfway between the accent he claimed particularly as his own and the one he'd put on for a laugh, and held the book so William could read along, "Whene'er I forgather wi' Sorrow and Care / I gie them a skelp, as they're creepin' alang / Wi' a cog o' guid swats and an auld Scottish sang."
It went in such a manner for several more verses: charming to the ear but often insensible to the mind for William, whose mind for dialectal English was nearly as strong as his mind for maths. When Archie had finished, he paused a moment, then looked up at William and asked, "Did you like that?"
"Yes," he answered, truthfully, and feeling somewhat the idiot, asked, "Now what does it mean?"
Archie made a hmm-ing noise before saying, "It means--he bears his troubles the best he can, by thinking on what he has." Before William could formulate a reply, Archie set the book aside. "But I think we might have to try a more...interactive method of teaching you."
"Hm?" William asked, but Archie shook his head and sat up, putting a hand against William's chest when he tried to follow suit. With an almost feline smile, Archie moved to straddle him where he lay; William was left to watch as Archie divested himself of his t-shirt, and to have his hands slapped playfully away when he attempted to help.
Running his hands underneath William's own nightshirt and up his chest, Archie leaned in, this time not reciting the words but singing them. His voice was quiet, and, William felt, perfectly nice, especially when the words were formed in the warm air against his jaw. "And I'll kiss thee yet, yet / And I'll kiss thee o'er again / And I'll kiss thee yet, yet / My bonie William Alison."
The value of Scottish poetry suddenly began to come clear.
