“Hog-ma-nay?”
“How do you spell that?”
“What is it again?”
“Hogmanay. H-O-G-M-A-N-A-Y.”
This past Friday, December 29, was my sister’s birthday and I had driven up to her home in the wireless wilds of the northwest woods of Massachusetts to celebrate with her, her family, and assorted friends. As a way of extending the evening into what became the early morning, we played “Dictionary,” the game in which one person searches the dictionary for a word that no one else knows; while everyone else writes their own anonymous definitions for the word on separate pieces of paper, the word selector writes the real meaning on his own; then the word selector collects and reads aloud all definitions, sneaking in the official one too. People then vote on the definition most likely to be the word’s real meaning. That evening, the randomly chosen – and amazingly fitting -- word was “Hogmanay.”
None of us supposedly well-traveled, well-educated individuals had ever heard of this weird word, which was spelled with a capital H. It naturally lent itself to such porcine-associated definitions as:
“Asking a pig for permission (see: hog/may);
*A large swine-breeding facility;
*The relationship between man and hog; farmed pigs.
Others thought the hog relationship was perhaps a little too obvious and went other, more random meanings:
*A threatening declaration as a result of an irrational, negative emotion;
*A large purple sweater, loosely knit; orig: Kenya;
*The debris that falls out from between the treads of shoes or boots.
In trying to guess the real definition, no one gave the slightest consideration to the seemingly random: “The eve of New Year’s Day. Scottish. Origin: obscure.” All the other definitions seemed to hint at some truth or other, but not that one.
And yet that was exactly the definition given by my sister’s 40-year-old Miriam- Webster’s dictionary. We laughed off the Scots’ odd name for “New Year’s Eve” and went to bed.
Meanwhile, little did we know that on that same evening over in Scotland the thousand-year-old, originally pagan Hogmanay celebration was already under way: in Edinburgh, the annual torchlight parade had kicked off the three-day event with a horde of men dressed as Vikings and carrying torches through the town, while a crowd of some 15,000 strong from Scotland and all over the world followed behind to see the ceremonial burning of the Viking long-boat on the top of the city’s Calton Hill.
Wikipedia’s suggested etymology of Hogmanay (pronounced Hug-M’nay, according to a friend’s Scottish husband) may have come from Old French(via the Normans who settled in England in the 11th century who trickled up to Scotland, perhaps?), from the phrase, “au gui mener,” meaning “to lead to the mistletoe.” (Well, it’s possible, considering the pagan reverence for the evergreen plant that they believed held health and fertility powers.) Wikipedia also said that
Hogmanay could be from Scottish Gaelic for “Og Mhadaninn,” meaning, “new morning.”
One of the main customs of Hogmanay is for children to go from house to house asking for presents; it is also traditional for adult Scots to go visiting from house to house (without asking for presents). Some Scottish-American friends of ours keep up the Hogmanay “foot first,” luck-bringing tradition that requires a (preferably) dark-haired (blond-haired would imply Viking – enemy – descent) and (preferably) tall and handsome man (yes, only men -- go ahead and boo, ladies) to be the first person over the threshold each New Year’s Day, and for the man (or teenager or little boy) to bring with him something to eat, something to drink, and some fuel -- traditionally, a lump of coal.
The http://www.hogmanay.net/ site lists all the goings-on in Edinburgh over the New Year holiday: concerts, a “Night Afore” party, revels, fireworks, runs, a bike triathlon, and even a “dogmanay” – a dog sled race with Alaskan huskies. And there are the fires -- big-big bonfires – originally to ward off those evil spirits that started haunting the pagans back around Halloween. So, together with bonfires and fireworks, imagine helmeted Vikings and long torchlights; bagpipers, drummers, fireworks, effigies … THAT is Hogmanay! And up until about twenty years ago in Scotland this event outranked Christmas, which was still a regular working day even in the 1970s. Nowadays, Christmas and Hogmanay are both national holidays, though Hogmanay no doubt draws in more tourists.
My question is, why didn’t Hogmanay make it to the United States? Why, given the amount of Americans with Scottish ancestry, is this word and festival so little known? If the Scottish could bring us plaid skirts and bagpipe parades, why not Homanay? To me, the only off-putting part of it is the sound of the word – so awkward and giving no clue to its real meaning; but could that have been enough to keep the Scots from transplanting this tradition when they started coming to America some two hundred years ago? (Their arrival began before Christmas was firmly established here.) Perhaps if the holiday had had a better name or marketing campaign, we’d be saying, “Happy Hogmanay” today.
Still, if the United States has lost out on Hogmanay – and perhaps small towns and cities are better off without the Viking hordes and torches setting fire to longboats on the edges of town – at least we have one other Scottish New Year’s tradition to salute: “Auld Lang Syne.”
This 18th century Scottish song is heard, played and sung (sometimes drunkenly) at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve all across the U.S. – on TV, at fancy balls, at family firesides. Credit for this American New Year’s anthem -- as unifying a force as noisemakers and confetti – must first go to Scotland’s Robert Burns (1759-1796), who breathed new life into the otherwise dead and buried words and tune, written anonymously long before; more recent credit must go as well as to the Canadian bandleader, Guy Lombardo (1902-1977), whose rendition of this song marked midnight on New Years Eve, first on American radio and later on TV, from roughly 1930-1970. By now, it’s the song that everyone sort of mumbles along to until getting to the words, “auld lang syne.”
Perhaps the song has survived because the tune is slow, you can drape your arm around friend or stranger for one brief, bonding moment while you sing; and no matter how much champagne you’ve had, few will notice if you skip or hum the words, because so few people know them all anyway.
Here, for the record, are the words – so you can resolve (and no doubt break the resolution) to learn them for next year’s celebration … Although Americans are happy enough to get through the first verse and chorus, this being a language column, I’ve given you the song in its old Scots entirety – with my own rough translations – thanks to Hogmanay.net
Auld Lang Syne (resurrected from an old Scottish poem and traditional melody) by Robert (aka Rabbie) Burns, 1759-1796
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days of auld lang syne?
(Should old friends be forgotten and never thought of? Should old friends be forgotten and days (literally: “of old long since.”)
CHORUS:
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We'll tak a cup of kindness yet,
For auld lang syne!
(For old times gone, my ear; for old time’s gone, we’ll drink a cup of ale, for (approx) old times gone.)
And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp,
And surely I'll be mine,
And we'll tak a cup o kindness yet,
For auld lang syne!
(And surely you’ll pay for your tankard of ale, and surely I’ll pay for mine; and we’ll take a cup of kindness/ale, for old times gone.)
We twa hae run about the braes,
And pou'd the gowans fine,
But we've wander'd monie a weary fit,
Sin auld lang syne.
(We two have run about the hills, and pulled the daisies fine; but we’ve wandered many a weary foot, since the days so long ago.)
We twa hae paidl'd in the burn
Frae morning sun till dine,
But seas between us braid hae roar'd
Sin auld lang syne.
(We two have paddled in the stream from noon til dinner, but seas between us wide have roared since days of long ago.)
And there's a hand my trusty fiere,
And gie's a hand o thine,
And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught,
For auld lang syne
(And there’s a hand my trusty friend, and you give your hand to me;
And we’ll take a right good drink … for old times gone.)
And from the Westchester highlands of Larchmont, the Language Lady wishes you all “a right-good willie-waught” (“waught” a great expression!) and a cup o’ kindness in any form, for 2007!
No comments:
Post a Comment