Hamish Henderson, Volume 2: A Biography: Poetry Becomes People (1952–2002)

Preface

In February 1949 the historian E.P. Thompson wrote to congratulate Hamish on the publication of his Elegies for the Dead in Cyrenaica.

I greet you with humility, compagno, for you are that rare man, a poet. You have achieved poems out of our dead century . . . You must remain a poet. Remember always who you are writing for: the people of Glasgow, of Halifax, of Dublin . . . You, more than any poet I know, are an instrument through which thousands of others can become articulate. And you must not forget that your songs and ballads . . . are quite as important as your Elegies.

Hamish took this advice very seriously, partly because it coincided with his own deep instincts, and within a couple of years he had become a professional folklorist determined to ‘sing’ a new, post-Calvinist Scotland into being. He encountered opposition but for the next fifty years determinedly went out amongst the folk, broadcasting and reaping, and, long before his death on 8 March 2002, at the age of eighty-two, Hamish had become, as W.H. Auden wrote of Sigmund Freud, ‘a whole climate of opinion’.

The London BBC News made no mention of Hamish’s passing but, to the surprise of many, Scotland’s new Parliament paid homage to Hamish with an hour-long tribute (the only person so honoured in the Parliament’s history). He was applauded as a great humanitarian, an internationalist, a peace campaigner, a man of the people, a poet who, like Shakespeare, put a mirror up to nature and the nation that he loved. Hamish’s song ‘The Flyting o’ Life and Daith’ gives poetic force to the clash of the kind of opposites to which he dedicated his great energies:

Quo life, the warld is mine.

The floo’ers and trees, they’re a’ my ain.

I am the day, and the sunshine

Quo life, the warld is mine.

Quo daith, the warld is mine.

Your lugs are deef, your een are blin

Your floo’ers maun dwine in my bitter win

Quo daith , the warld is mine.

Quo Life the warld is mine.

I hae saft wins, an healin rain,

Apples I hae, an breid an wine

Quo life, the warld is mine . . .¹

Shortly after E.P. Thompson wrote the letter quoted above, Hamish began working on a long poem, ‘Freedom becomes People’. Outlining the structure of his poem, Hamish noted that the Christ story is the archetypal life-story of the artist–hero, ‘a truth-loving poet in an authoritarian climate which adores only lies’. His heroes Antonio Gramsci, John MacLean, Nelson Mandela (and Che Guevara) all suffered forms of similar martyrdom. Here are some of Hamish’s early jottings:

Memories of the undone

On narrow shoulder lean their atrocious weight.

The ideal poetry of the world beyond appearance reveals itself

in a flash from time to time.

There is power, power

Wonderworking power

In the blood of the Lord

There is power.

When the old hear me

talk of death – or say the word themselves –

     for a minute they are lost.

          incompetent to deal with it –

               and say knowing for sometime.

The madonna of the roads

     the sacred traveller.

To think is to think long on all the horror:

     Histories saturnalia.²

Pagan, Christian, rational, ecstatic – there we have Hamish in an acorn cup. Initially he entitled his poem ‘The Cell’, then ‘Christus’³ but settled finally on Heine’s inspired words, ‘Freedom becomes People’. His friend Duncan Glen then adapted the phrase as the rubric ‘Poetry becomes People’ to describe the totality of Hamish’s highly original cultural/political vision. It brilliantly encapsulates the organic nature, the oceanic scale of Hamish’s cultural ambition, his wish to nurture life – individual, collective, biological, historical and ecological. I am proud to make Duncan’s words the title of this volume.

In a society that still accepts it as normal that the British taxpayer should pay for Prince Andrew to fly to St Andrews for a round of golf it is not surprising that the death of a man like Hamish is not considered national news. In years to come, however, when our obsequious subservience to royalty is recognised as offensive, the songs and poems that Hamish made and championed will still bring beauty and truth to the minds of men and women ‘with a thought or two to rub together’, as Hamish liked to say.

* * *

Readers will find that Volume 2 of this biography moves more slowly than Volume 1. The intensity of Hamish’s youthful focus gradually softened and widened as the years passed and others began to share his burdens and joys. By his mid thirties his personal artistic creativity was waning but with his appointment as a folk studies researcher at the School of Scottish Studies at the University of Edinburgh (in 1952) he gained a public platform that enabled him to make Scotland the stage for fifty years of Prospero-like experiments. Hamish made himself champion of Scotland’s rich oral traditions at the very moment when the new media were also beginning to challenge the tyranny of institutionalised literacy. Any lingering desire Hamish retained for fame as ‘a published poet’ was extinguished as he took personal responsibility for ‘the word’ and music of his people in a new multimedia, multicultural world.

His stance as a folklorist was philosophical, cultural and political: he saw no division between the artistic power of the written and the unwritten word, the authorial voice and folk tradition, the witty one-liner and the wisdom of the ages. He recognised that the vernacular culture of Scotland was a vast reservoir of energies and traditions that should be celebrated and broadcast worldwide. He felt passionately that poetry must be reconnected to its origin in song and the direct life of its audience, the tribe.

Through his work for the School of Scottish Studies Hamish quickly gained a reputation as an exemplary professional scholar but refused to be conscribed by self-referential academic norms. He saw the field of folklore as a great open space – a university – for the study of everything concerning people. He had a matchless ear for the deeps of Scots culture, a faultless eye for authenticity of performance, quality and honesty of mind. For him folk studies were a revolutionary force: a well, not at the world’s end but ‘here and now’. He was a romantic but knew his history and always sought practical objectives. As Byron foresaw the means by which he might bring freedom (and genius) back to the Greek people, so Hamish believed he could nurture new freedoms and spread new concepts of genius, in Scotland. In 1938 he wrote of the Gorbals:

        Alone and alonie

I climb Balmano Street. The haggard houses

Spew out their wizened, withered aged children

On to the dirty stone . . . So howl ye ships from Clyde!⁴

Fifty years later, in his last poem, ‘Under the Earth I Go’ (completed in 1991), he paints a very different picture:

. . . Change elegy into hymn, remake it –

Don’t fail again. Like the potent

Sap in these branches, once bare, and now brimming

With routh of green leavery,

Remake it, and renew . . .⁵

Hamish was a legendary talker, a drinker whom many – in life and since his death – dismiss as a maudlin haverer or revolutionary hard man. But, to those with ears to hear, Hamish in full flow raised spirits and horizons as few individuals do: his listeners felt impelled to address their better selves and the faultlines in their societies. Apparently haphazard bar conversations became fulcrums of tens of thousands of adventures, projects and relationships. The story of the loaves and fishes exists in imaginations only, but what a story and what an idea.

Today, perhaps surprisingly, few of Hamish’s many friends remember much of what he actually said. It was the ambience he created, the joys he liberated, the conviviality he engendered, the moral certitudes generated that remain indelibly – mysteriously – comprehended. And beyond that, of course, the poems, the songs, the letters, the articles, the translations exist; and his deeds live as historical facts.

As age limited his powers, Hamish gloried in ‘the art of compotation’; the passing round of drinks became a kind of baptismal immersion, a Celtic vanishing act, in which song, stories and enquiry became vehicles for a kind of public love-making in which the sensation of being alive became a transcendent reality. A filigree of possibilities, a page in the Book of Kells, would be turned. The moment is, the living is. Hamish knew drink to be a two-headed monster: like ‘the twin dragons, Life and Death, / Joustin thegither under the Maypole’.⁶ But for him uisge beatha⁷ was a reality and symbol of something great – beyond measure or price. MacDiarmid had touched on the essence of this very Scottish phenomenon in the 1930s, and dull would he be of soul who presumes such an essence mere alcohol.

In Scotland in the Gaidhealtachd there’s a golden wine,

A wine that demands so deliberate a pause,

In order to detect its hidden peculiarities

And subtle exquisiteness of flavour, that to drink it

Is really more a moral than a physical delight.

There is a deliciousness in it that eludes analysis

And like everything else that is superlatively good

Is better appreciated by the memory

Than by present consciousness . . .

. . . Through what else can Scotland recover its poise

Save, as very Hope, this golden wine yet?⁸

In the eighteenth century Burns wrote that ‘Whisky and Liberty gang thegither’ and Hamish, with even greater determination, cocked a snook at the propriety that has hardened so many hearts in Scotland across the ages. Research exercises often take strange forms – within universities and without – and Hamish consciously used Sandy Bell’s bar as a crucible in which Scots steel might become earth again. He sought a Blakean New Jerusalem where, ‘Tomorrow, songs / Will flow free again, and new voices / Be borne on the carrying stream.’⁹ As the history of modern Ireland proves, ‘good craik’ can be the springboard not just to great literary achievements but also to full stomachs, political change and human fulfilment based on national freedom. Perhaps Hamish Henderson’s ‘folk revival’ will thus be no small thing but as his friend John Berger wrote shortly after their first meeting:

. . . the force

of what lives us,

outliving the mountain.¹⁰

Acknowledgements

In completing this biography a huge thank you to Katzel Henderson and her family for their continued loyal support of this project: their archive, encouragement and factual advice have been invaluable. Intellectually and creatively, Hamish’s old friends Eck Finlay (editor of The Armstrong Nose and Alias MacAlias), Raymond Ross (editor of Cencrastus and Hamish Henderson: Collected Poems and Songs), Joy Hendry (editor of Chapman), have all given me outstanding assistance for which I extend deep thanks. Others who have given inspired support include Andrew Ward, Margaret Bennett, Alison McMorland, Geordie McIntyre, Pino Mereu, Lorn Macintyre, David Craig, Ray Burnett, Sue Finlay, Freddie Freeman, Dolina MacLennan, Sheila Stewart, George Gunn, Maurice Fleming, Jean Redpath, Deirdre MacMahon, Nicholas Johnson, John Frew, Adam McNaughtan, Maggie Mackay and staff at the School of Scottish Studies, Jean Redpath, Hilary Lyall, William Neill, Eddie Linden (editor of Aquarius), Lesley Lendrum, Ian Olson, Hayden Murphy, Alastair Campbell of the Tolbooth, Stirling, Howard Glasser of New York, Donald Smith of the Scottish Storytelling Centre. Also Eddie McGuire, Gerry Mangan, Jim MacGregor, Andrew Hood, David Arthur, John Brookes, Elisabetta Cozzi, Nora Albert, Danny Cooper, Derrick Chishom, Richard Carr, Angus Calder, Duncan Glen, Douglas Eadie, Ruth Frame, Jamie Macdonald Reid, Alasdair Gray, Willie and Val Gillies, Dick Greenhaus, Martin Green, Verna Gillis, the Hawkes family at Dry Drayton, Jim Gilchrist, Ian Kerr, David Ross, Michael Law, Paddy O’Neill, Jo Miller, Ed Miller, Paddy Bort, Rasjid A.J. Arthur, Stewart McLennan, Allan MacDonald, Ewan McVicar, Tony Morrow, Cathlin Macauley, Norman MacLean, Gordon Stewart, Willie MacPhee, Alec John Williamson, Peg MacPhee, Mary Morgan, Jean Mohr, J.P. McGroarty, Graham Noble, Mitchell Library, Niall O’Murchadha, Des O’Rourke, Marie MacArthur and Bob Pegg, Ross Roy, Esther Hovey, Stanley Robertson, Ian Russell, Carla Sassi, Heather Scott, Paul Scott, Ian Spring, Deidre Grieve, Tilda Swinton, Marian Sugden, Dorothy Thompson, Pete Shepheard, Elspeth Smellie, Mary Tucker, Ian Thompson, Sheena Wellington, Carmen Wright, Stephanie Wolfe Murray, George Philp, John Purser, John Dubarry, Audrey Canning of Glasgow Caledonian University, Les Wilson, Donald Meek, Edward J. Cowan, Arnott Wilson, Michael Law, Paddy O’Neill, Arthur Thompson, Iain and Neil MacDonald, Tom McCulloch of Tomatin Distillery, and John Berger. Amongst the givers in kind I especially thank Ross Carstairs for suppling three loads of logs, a brace of mallard, five of pheasant and twelve of pigeon; John and Janet Cameron for supplying venison and eggs; Richard Turner for buying mushrooms; the Health Food Shop St Andrews and Alison Bachelor for buying honey; Dougie Storrier for mending the roof; and the little boy in Little Glenshee who stopped with his mother to call out, at a distance, ‘thank you for looking after the bees’. Such things count for much in a harsh climate. Also a huge thank you to Mairi Sutherland, my editor, whose work has been to the point, inspiring and comradely; to Alastair Clark for his excellent advice; to Neville Moir and Jim Hutcheson for their good-humoured and loyal support of this project over many years. Finally, I extend posthumous thanks to Stuart MacGregor, whose novels The Myrtle and Ivy and The Sinner provided me with first-hand testimony as to what Hamish’s Edinburgh was like – in the heady days of the fifties and sixties – before I met him myself.

Illustration credits. I am very grateful to the many people whose photographs and artwork appear in this biography. I thank them all, in particular the artists Andrew Ward and Brad Graves, and the photographers Jean Mohr and Tricia Malley. Photographers are acknowledged in the plate captions, with their names given in full. Initials indicate the collection from which the photograph comes, coded as follows: Katzel Henderson (KH), Timothy Neat (TN), Willie MacPhee (WM), Maurice Fleming (MF), Alec John Williamson (AJW), Arthur Elliot (AE), Eddie McGuire (EM), Davie Adams (DA), Dolina MacLennan (DM), Ruth Frame (RF), Aly Bain (AB).

Publisher’s Acknowledgements

The author and the publishers would also like to thank the following for permission to publish quoted material:

STAN AWBREY: extract from letter to the Manchester Guardian, published by permission of Glamorgan Record Office; JOE CORRIE: extract from letter to Hamish Henderson, 3 April 1959, published by permission of Morag Corrie; LAWRENCE DALY: extract from letter to Hamish Henderson, 26 January 1960, published by permission of Mrs Renee Daly; MAIRGHREAD ELLIS: extract from letter of condolence to Mrs Henderson, 2002, published by permission of Dr Mairghread Ellis; PAT GERBER: extract from letter to Tim Neat, 1992, published by permission of Cyril Gerber; DUNCAN GLEN: review of ‘The Freedom Come a’ Ye’ from Inter Arts, Volume 1, No. 7 (October 1988), reprinted by permission of Margaret Glen; BRUCE JACKSON: extract from Gershon Legman obituary, 1999, published by permission of Bruce Jackson; ARNOLD KETTLE: extract from letter to Hamish Henderson, published by permission of Martin Kettle; GERSHON LEGMAN: extracts from letters to Hamish Henderson, published by permission of Judith Legman; TOM LEONARD: extract from letter to Hamish Henderson, 1984, published by permission of Tom Leonard; HUGH MACDIARMID: extracts from poetry, and letter from New & Selected Letters, edited by Alan Riach (Carcanet Press, 2001), reproduced by permission of Carcanet Press; SORLEY MACLEAN: extracts from Hugh MacDiarmid funeral oration, and poetry from From Wood to Ridge: Collected Poems in Gaelic and English (Carcanet Press, 1989), reproduced by permission of Carcanet Press; JAMES MACMILLAN: extracts from letter to Hamish Henderson, 1 October 1987, and interview given to the Sunday Telegraph, 5 January 2003, reproduced by permission of James MacMillan; JOHN MCGRATH: extract from letter to Hamish Henderson, March 1972, published by permission of Casarotto Ramsay & Associates; NAOMI MITCHISON: extract from letter to Hamish Henderson, 1964, published by permission of David Higham Associates; SEAN O’BOYLE extracts from letters to Hamish Henderson, published by permission of Colm J. Boyle; SANDY PATON: extract from letter to Hamish Henderson, 20 July 1960, published by permission of Caroline Paton; JOHN PREBBLE: extracts from letters, published by permission of Curtis Brown Group Ltd; JOHN PURSER: extract from letter to Hamish Henderson, 12 April, 1992, published by permission of John Purser; PETE SEEGER: unpublished letters to Hamish Henderson, published by permission of Pete Seeger; ZETTA SINCLAIR: extracts from letters to Hamish Henderson, published by permission of Isla St Clair; DUNCAN WILLIAMSON: quote, and recollections recounted to Hamish Henderson, published by permission of Linda Williamson; LINDA WILLIAMSON: letters and memorabilia, published by permission of Linda Williamson; WORKERS MUSIC ASSOCIATION: letter to Hamish Henderson, published by permission of WMA.

Every effort has been made to establish copyright and contact copyright holders prior to publication. If contacted, the publisher will be pleased to rectify any omissions or errors at the earliest opportunity.

ONE

The School of Scottish Studies

The dumb boy is looking for a voice is looking for poetry.

HH¹¹

The School of Scottish Studies, formally established at the University of Edinburgh in January 1952, became the fulcrum of Hamish Henderson’s life for the next fifty years. It was created as a research department dedicated ‘to the study and conservation of the folk culture of Scotland’. As a teenager Hamish thrilled to Yeats’s statement: ‘through the theatre the mob becomes a nation’: now he felt empowered to use Scots song and ‘the School’ as the means by which he would see Scotland become a nation again.

Hamish’s vocation as a song collector went back to his childhood in Glenshee, and the scrapbook he assembled as a ten-year-old in Somerset includes this cutting from the Weekend Scotsman: ‘Old Scots Songs – Need for a Compilation’:

Dear Sir, I was very pleased to see that last week you printed two good old Scots songs. Many years ago the ‘Weekly Scotsman’ was instrumental in reviving and printing some of our fine old songs, copies of which I still have, which are cut out from the ‘Weekly Club’. It is a pity we could not find someone to do for Scottish songs what Mrs Kennedy Fraser did for the songs of the Hebrides. I herewith enclose you a copy of an old song, ‘Auld Jock Tamsin’, which I have failed to find in print, so I have written it out from memory. The words are by James Ballantyne, who is also the author of ‘Ilka blade o’ grass keeps its ain drop o’ dew’. I had the music from ‘Auld Jock Tamsin’ but I ‘tint’ it lango . . . David Ross

‘Auld Jock Tamsin’ was a favourite song in the Henderson house, and Hamish appears to have taken Ross’s letter as a call-to-arms: he would be a poet, a song collector, a nation-builder. What Kennedy-Fraser had done for Gaelic song in the Hebrides, he would do for Scotland as a whole but he determined that he would do what she had done and a great deal more.¹² Hamish understood folksong to be an aspect of ‘collective wellbeing’ and a political force. Elevation of the Scots folk tradition was an integral part of the grand plans he laid for himself as a schoolboy at Dulwich. In the College magazine, The Alleynian, he writes of his ‘Glenshee Assembly’, an imagined bardic parliament dedicated to peace and Scotland’s future renewal. This fictitious Assembly might be described as becoming ‘a reality’ with the foundation of the School of Scottish Studies. On 29 November 1951 in high excitement Hamish wrote to his Cambridge friend Marian Sugden:

From 1 January I shall be on a three-month tour of the north financed by the School of Scottish Studies, Edin. University, collecting ballads and finding singers, God’s own job – and hospitality money provided. The truth is the university people were so impressed by Lomax’s achievements (the amount of fine singing we collected in a short time clear bowled ’em over) that they’ve disregarded my suspect politics at long last and given me a job . . . ‘Mica male!’ About time too. The ‘hospitality money’ means that I’m entitled to put down as expenses the occasional drop of the immortal cratur for adding the edge to fiddle tune or song. And sae at last this bonnie cat / He had a stroke o’ luck.¹³

Since his expulsion from Italy in October 1950, Hamish had lived close to the breadline, and letters from his friend the communist zoologist Mervyn Plunkett affirm his hardships. On 12 December 1951 Plunkett writes: ‘Queenie Moncrieff tells us you were down a few weeks ago and seemed depressed . . . We’ve speculated from time to time as to what you are existing on as no doubt the Gramsci earnings have been used long since . . .’ Three months later, however, he writes from Uganda in brotherly glee:

Well, here I am deep in the heart of darkest Africa and a gey lang step frae Auld Reekie . . . The people are maybe a wee bit browner than at home, but the women are buxom strapping wenches and many a one you’ll see sporting a Kanzu of Macrae or Wallace or Sinclair plaid . . . Queenie says you sound happy – which you damned well should be seeing that you’ve got The Job just made for you.

Hamish’s formal letter of appointment is dated 13 December 1951 and came from Professor Sidney Newman (Reid Professor of Music at the University of Edinburgh).

Dear Mr Henderson . . . This letter is confirmation of a commission to work on behalf of Edinburgh University collecting ballads folksongs and folklore material in Aberdeenshire and Banffshire during the three months from 1 January to 31 March 1952 . . . recording Willie Matheson of King Edward and Mr Strachan of Crichie. The terms which I am authorised to offer are a fee of £35 a month . . . With £45 available for expenses, with the exception of board and lodging the main foreseeable expenses will be your travel by bus or bicycle, the charging of batteries and hospitality required by your singers.

The foundations of the School of Scottish Studies (SSS) had been laid in 1949 when the University of Edinburgh set up an advisory board on ‘Postgraduate Scottish Studies’ under the chairmanship of Angus McIntosh, Forbes Professor of English Language and General Linguistics.¹⁴ In January 1951 Calum Maclean was ‘seconded’ from the Irish Folklore Commission to become the first Gaelic Folklore Research Fellow at Edinburgh. That summer, Hamish (and Calum Maclean), working with the American collector Alan Lomax, made remarkable field recordings which affirmed the necessity that a ‘School’ be established – even if only temporarily – and in January 1952 Calum Maclean, Dr Francis Collinson and Hamish began work. All were employed on short-term contracts and Hamish’s appointment, in particular, stimulated questions. The Gaelic scholar John MacInnes, for instance, reports that other candidates – like William Montgomerie (a teacher, collector, scholar and poet from Dundee) – had strong supporters but Hamish had no wish to argue and quickly disappeared into the snows of Aberdeenshire.

On 29 January Professor Newman writes, ‘Dear Hamish . . . I was delighted to have your long and informative letter . . . The quality of Matheson’s voice is coming out remarkably well . . . Your work is very satisfactory . . .’ On 15 March he was even more encouraging: ‘I congratulate you on some very satisfactory recording and of course the material recovered is excellent and of very great interest . . . Will you go on till mid April?’ Ten days later, he notes Hamish’s contact with descendants of the earlier collector Gavin Greig and adds, ‘I hope you are successful in getting a recording and an eye-witness account of the Horseman’s Word ceremony that you are after . . . I will be coming up for a visit 2–5 April . . . Tell Willie that we all very much enjoy what we have heard so far of his songs and his singing.’ In addition to his own vast repertoire of songs, Willie Matheson had contacts, and Hamish made use of them:

Yesterday I had rare luck, because a travelling salesman called John Keith turned up at Willie’s and sold him a couple of ‘doctor’ flannel vests. This salesman was a lineal descendant of the ‘packmen’, who in the old days used to carry news and ballads around – as well as sell their wares. Fortunately, John Keith was a very intelligent variety of the species, conscious of his own identity and the social order – so I recorded from him a fascinating description of his role and that of the packman, old and new. And the recording ends with a bit of authentic sales patter in braid Scots.¹⁵

Hamish never set bounds around what he was doing; everything was grist to his mill. Many of his best contacts were people whom other professional folk collectors had previously avoided. Hamish later spoke proudly of ‘brushing shoulders with contemporary ancestors who not only embodied a vanishing way of life but who were creatively inspiring – to me!’ After jotting down a series of ‘surreal prophecies’ Hamish outlined the plot of an ‘International Thriller’ he would write when his research contract expired.

Influenced by G.K. Chesterton (realism and fantasy): A Commissioner of Police – Theophraste Layuet – a Parisian – in the Catacombs discovers that, in a former life, he was Cartouche, a renowned robber (character based on James MacPherson the early C18th Highlander – hanged at Banff). Theo applies for help from – Messier Eliphes de Skint-Elme de Taillebourg de la Nox – the mage. Cartouche relives his torture and death: boot and red hot irons – Theo’s hair turns white (a la Norman Douglas in ‘South Wind’) . . . I am entering the radiant darkness of death.¹⁶

This death reference is probably to the subterranean world of the Horseman’s Word, Hamish’s first major anthropological discovery. The Horseman’s Word was the name given to an ancient society of horsemen, ploughmen, farrowers and blacksmiths centred on north-east Scotland. Hamish saw the society as the continuance of a primordial horse-cult adapted to nineteenth-century agricultural practices. Rights and rituals were jealously guarded, and the Brotherhood was a depository of ancient lore of great veterinary and literary interest. Knowledge of horses and horsemanship was passed on by word of mouth and in secret rituals: apprentices were inducted, oaths taken, poetry recited, songs sung. In charge was the High Horseman and, as Hamish relates, ‘the black airts very much part of the process’. Membership was male but certain activities echoed those used at witches’ covens. The language was frequently grand and druidic, many of the songs were wilfully bawdy, some of the rituals deliberately brutal. No previous folklorist had attended these ceremonies. As Hamish later recounted, ‘it was as if I had stumbled into a Mau-Mau camp and been recognised as the brother of Jomo Kenyatta! Punishment for the betrayal of secrets was as severe as amongst the Masons. So, naturally, we all got on very well.’ Hamish never claimed that his discoveries were totally original – a number of north-east journalists had written, tentatively, about the society – but he told me:

I knew I had entered a Cave of Gold. I felt like Homer wandering through the smoking ruins of Troy might have felt, or that boy – looking up at those cloud-like rocks that roof the cave at Altamira and seeing bulls! Going out in the moonlight to those black byres to find men parading in calfskins and blind-folded boys suspended from hooks was mind-blowing. In the lantern-light, the horsemen looked as if they had just ridden in from the steppe. Here was theatre of a high order.¹⁷

When Hamish’s field work was reviewed by Professor Newman and David Abercrombie in the summer of 1952, he told them not only that the tradition of Scots balladry was alive and well but that a new generation was still developing the tradition.

They believed that we were completing a final ‘vacuum clean’ of a dying tradition! I sensed that they were going to say ‘thank you – and good night!’ So, I was not slow in telling them ‘our work is only beginning!’ They knew about Gavin Greig.¹⁸ They knew about Dr Carpenter.¹⁹ They had been persuaded that some gleaning needed doing but neither had any real idea that this rich, vibrant, bounding cultural phenomenon was still developing. So, I told them about this boy of seventeen [Arthur Argo: Greig’s great-grandson] who was singing these old songs – as though he meant every word – and making new songs! . . . Well, it was marvellous to see the faces of these professors expand into grins. They then went back to convince their advisory panels that our work had to continue – that the School should expand its work. This meant that the Folk Revival, that Arthur personified, also got a very helpful leg-up.²⁰

Most weekends Hamish caught the train back to Edinburgh, and his tales of the Aberdeenshire horse-cults quickly aroused tumescent interest. Bobby Watt (the veterinary student soon to be charged with conspiracy and membership of the Scottish Republican Army – see Volume I) was greatly inspired, as was the poet Helen B. Cruickshank, with whom Hamish often enjoyed bed and breakfast. Coming from Montrose, she was fascinated by Hamish’s ‘Doric Discoveries’. She had recently retired from the Scottish Office and lodged in her mother’s commodious house, ‘Dinnieduff’, making it Scotland’s number one literary salon. On 31 January 1952 she wrote:

Dear Hamish, I’m sorry I hadn’t time to put a note in with your washing, but I was darning that darned sark till 1.30am, and slept in so long next morning . . . I have broken my word, I swore I would never, never mend your sarks, and I did it – the first – and most probably the last I shall ever mend! So consider yourself honoured. But for Heaven’s sake don’t wear them so dirty again. I had to scrub and scrub to get the dirt out of the collar. And still it wasn’t clean – and I don’t have a boiler. Enough of sarks!

That Scotland’s leading woman poet should take such pride in playing Martha to the homeless Hamish is salutary: she recognised him as Scotland’s latest champion and would scrub for him. Twenty years earlier she had given intellectual succour to James Leslie Mitchell (Lewis Grassic Gibbon), author of Sunset Song and Spartacus, and Cruickshank encouraged Hamish similarly as a peace activist and revolutionary as well as a poet and collector. Proud as a mother, she writes on 12 March 1952:

Dear Hamish, I had tea with Flora yesterday and told her about the ‘Horseman’s Word’. It was news to her of a very fascinating order . . . I wonder if there’s any survival in the rites which initiate curlers. Look into it, my lad! A lot of these queer ceremonies have queer origins . . . Your Aberdeen article had a nice reflection in ‘Scotsman’s Log’ . . . I’ve been busy, do no literary work here – except my usual boosting of others . . .

A much younger woman inspired by Hamish’s Horseman researches was the anthropologist Dr Una MacLean (wife to John Mackintosh MP and later to Sir Bernard Crick):

Dear Hamish, The cult that you describe has so much in common with initiation ceremonies into animal cults in many parts of the world, notably in West Africa, that it would seem a clear remnant of indigenous paganism. The habit of using ‘The Devil’ in current ceremonies is a result of the extent, and limitations, of Christian influence (and shows official religion being super-imposed upon the immemorial cults) . . . It is very common for a group of men whose lives and fortunes are closely bound up with a particular animal to identify with the animal and deify the creature whom they serve and who serves them. I think the ‘trade union’ aspect is secondary . . . I don’t think you need worry about its date of origin (C18th?) – it must have carried over from something much earlier . . . How very exciting if traces of similar ceremonies relating to oxen could be found . . . But the Horseman’s Word should not be confused with the ‘Witch Cult’ so called. These animal cults are male only – relating to the life which the men live apart from the women. Witches, on the other hand, are the essence of women – as seen and feared by the men. (I have met old men in Africa who have told me ‘The Witches are our mothers’.) . . . It is also probably no coincidence that when the North East coast took on Christianity it adopted a particular apostolic form – the ‘Closed Brethren’ and all that. It may not be without significance that the part of Scotland where pagan traces lasted so long took up a form of Christianity very different from the general – stricter, more ritualistic and more emotional in expression.²¹

Hamish always saw his collecting as a ‘collective activity’, and Una MacLean’s mention of ‘an ox cult’ encouraged him to look into the work of the Aberdeenshire collector Peter Buchan (1790–1854), who wrote about the ‘self-identification between men and animals in the North East of Scotland’ and had courted ridicule by arguing for ‘the sanctity of the cart horse’. His pamphlet Cogent Proofs: That Brutes have Souls explores ‘the animality of sex’. Hamish found this extremely interesting and much later, in the 1980s, he encouraged one of his best students, Ian Spring, to make Peter Buchan’s The Secret Songs of Silence the subject of his PhD thesis. In his search for an ox cult, Hamish unearthed a medieval Pleugh Sang, written down in the seventeenth century and in the Forbes Cantus. It appears to document a ceremony that combined an ox sacrifice, a fertility blessing, the recitation of feudal loyalties and the performance of a Scots Mummers Play. Like the Horseman’s Word, this Pleugh Sang awaits transformation into modern, very druidic opera.

My hearty service to you, my Lord . . .

Here is an ox into your plough,

It is right so, ye say the sooth,

And he no longer may be drawn

But he be led . . . Suppose you brod him

While he die – Hey, douna, douna, douna die . . .

As I was bound on with ane wicker!

For to deliver me – behead the old ox –

And I trip-free – as he be dead . . .

And bring with me my fair fresh oxe

With all that belonges to the plough –

Hey douna, douna, douna, hey . . .²²

When Hamish’s three-month contract was renewed he spent the summer of 1952 archiving his material whilst the administrative structure of the School was set in place by Secretary–Archivist Stewart Sanderson. These structures remained fluid for some time, and Helen Cruickshank’s second letter (above) may hold a clue as to why: she mentions that Hamish’s work had ‘had a nice reflection in Scotsman’s Log’ (the Scotsman diary column). This reference may be entirely innocuous but Cruickshank was a committed radical who maintained a lifelong friendship with the Scots patriot-activist Wendy Wood (a woman of continuing interest to British Intelligence) and, as pointed out in Volume 1 of this biography, the author of ‘A Scotsman’s Log’ (Wilfred Taylor) acted as an MI5/MI6 recruiter at the University of Edinburgh. Consequently Cruickshank may have been alerting Hamish to the fact that MI5 was maintaining an interest in his activities. If this was so, a question arises: was Hamish’s appointment to the School of Scottish Studies also influenced by the interests or the demands of MI5?

The University of Edinburgh has had a long relationship with the British Intelligence Services and it seems improbable that Hamish would have been given a university appointment without ‘a nod’ of approval from MI5. If such a nod was given – in relation to the appointment of the most dangerous leftwing nationalist in Scottish politics – the inference must be that ‘field folk collecting’ was seen as a means of diverting and controlling Hamish’s revolutionary energies. A parallel can be drawn with the decision to employ Robert Burns as a Dumfriesshire Exciseman when the War with Revolutionary France broke out in 1793.

Why Edinburgh as the location for the School?²³ Hamish himself had suggested Aberdeen as the best choice. Glasgow had musical, cultural and political claims. But, to the chagrin of many, it was Edinburgh that was chosen and it may not be coincidental that four of the professors associated with the School had worked with British Intelligence during the war. Professor Angus McIntosh (English Language) served at Bletchley Park, David Abercrombie (Phonetics) in North Africa, Stuart Piggott (Archaeology) in India, whilst David Talbot Rice (Fine Art) was a Byzantine specialist with a Russian wife. And when the School’s fifth anniversary was celebrated in January 1957, surprisingly, the guest speaker was Wilfred Taylor. If secret interventions were going on, Hamish was delighted to ignore them and grasp the great opportunity he had been offered with both hands. He recognised that, whilst his short-term political objectives might be compromised, in the long run, his newfound freedom to champion the Scots folk tradition could only serve his ambitions for the Scots people. If Brer Rabbit outwitted Brer Fox by getting himself flung ‘into the briar patch’, why should he not do something similar and escape to the hills – Scot free?

If Hamish’s appointment initiated controversy outside the School, the appointment of Stewart Forson Sanderson as Secretary–Archivist at the School stimulated controversy within the School. Although his post was full-time and all the school’s researchers were responsible to him, he lacked formal folklore qualifications. Sanderson was born in Nyasaland in 1924. After attending George Watson’s College and three years’ service in the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve (1943–46) he studied English and gained a first-class degree at the University of Edinburgh in 1951. Following a brief spell in Florence he came back to Scotland to take charge of the School of Scottish Studies, at the age of twenty-seven. His great interest was in English literature, though he subsequently engaged with Scottish folklore; Hamish took an immediate dislike to a man whom he later described as ‘imperious, supercilious and authoritarian’. When the employment of a full-time Director was recommended, Hamish and Calum Maclean felt strongly that an established folklore scholar should be sought. In April 1957, they wrote to the University Principal, Sir Edward Appleton:

Dear Principal, The first years of the School’s academic existence have revealed certain definite weaknesses which are the direct result of the lack of an authoritive and scholarly direction. It is vital to the future of the School that the situation obtaining in the past should not be perpetuated. We all agree that we would work to better purpose under the leadership of a man with recognised scholastic attainments. No capacity for administration can compensate for the absence of such qualifications. Every foreign archive we have seen is led by a scholar . . . We would welcome the appointment of an international scholar even on a short term basis, for we are confident that a native successor will eventually be found.

Later that year, Basil Megaw, an Ulsterman who had been director of the Manx Museum, was appointed, and Stewart Sanderson left in 1960 to take up a post at the University of Leeds.

One cause of conflict between Hamish and Sanderson concerned the field recordings collected. Sanderson saw the School as a library–museum dedicated to the preservation of selected material available only to bona fide academic researchers. Hamish wanted almost everything recorded to be preserved and made as widely available as possible. Things came to a head when Sanderson circulated staff with a demand that once tapes had been ‘transcribed’ they should be wiped and reused, as was the practice at the Irish Folklore Commission. For Hamish and Calum this was sacrilege. They believed their tapes contained ‘unique voices that must be preserved and made available to generations unborn’. They saw the School as much more than a library/archive: they wanted it to be a workshop, a meeting place, an engine house for new developments. The Folk Revival was already a living reality, and Hamish believed that the School had a crucial role to play in ensuring that it would grow on authentic foundations: ‘It was the traditional singers and musicians – whom we were capturing on tape – who embodied that authenticity.’

Stewart Sanderson had no easy job. His researchers were strong-minded individualists, and universities regularly experience problems with ‘new subjects’ and anyone who thinks outside the box. It has been argued that it was Sanderson’s firm hand on the tiller that gained the School its international reputation but both Hamish and Calum suffered recurrent ‘dark nights of the soul’ during his tenure. In the late 1950s things went from bad to worse when Calum was diagnosed with cancer and needed helpers to carry his recorders. Hamish controlled his anger and frustrations with difficulty and found respite in extended field trips ‘that brought in the harvest of five thousand years’. After one confrontation, Hamish noted a statement that Sanderson had assumed was a coup de grâce: ‘We created your post – and you needed it!’ Why did Sanderson use the word ‘we’? Why did Hamish underline it?

Despite these teething problems, the School quickly made a name for itself. In many ways it became a ‘school’ in the art-historical sense of the word. And just as an apparently backward group of realist painters had created the School of Barbizon – to stimulate Impressionism, Post-impressionism and triumphant Modernism – so the ‘backwoods’ folklorists at the School of Scottish Studies set in train artistic changes of worldwide significance. Amongst Hamish’s colleagues, the work of Calum Maclean and Francis Collinson merits particular mention. Calum Maclean was a native Gaelic speaker. Born on the island of Raasay in 1916, he became a boarder at Portree High School on Skye before moving to Edinburgh to read Celtic. In 1939 he took up a postgraduate scholarship in Dublin and remained in Ireland throughout the Second World War. After years of splendid work in Connaught, for the Irish Folklore Commission (IFC), Maclean returned to Scotland in 1946 as IFC researcher in the Hebrides. It was there he met Hamish and their close friendship began. In Benbecula alone, within three months, Calum recorded 165 ‘unknown folklore items’, including the longest oral story ever recorded in Scotland, Alasdair mac a’ Cheir. Calum was a character: small, elfin and quixotic and, in Hamish’s words, ‘a bastion of courage, moral integrity and greatness of soul’.²⁴

As scholars and friends Hamish and Calum were very much a twosome and they would sometimes ‘put on a show’ for foreign scholars – at a ceilidh or in Sandy Bell’s bar – singing in English, Gaelic, Swedish, Italian, Scots before returning to Gaelic and declaring: ‘Gaelic song has the beatings of them all!’ It is their work and personalities that created the ethos that made the School famous. Following Calum’s death on his adopted home, South Uist in 1960, Hamish wrote this tribute:

Calum stood in the midst of a tradition, he was part-bearer as well as a collector (in the great Scottish tradition) and conscious of those who had gone before – John Francis Campbell of Islay, Hector MacLean, Alexander Carmichael, Ewan MacLachlan, John Lorne Campbell – yet in the end he can be seen to have excelled them all. His research papers w ere not numerous: he addressed the urgency of the task before him at a particular moment. He got down and announced, to the world, that which others must analyse and now take up.

Calum’s death stimulated his brother, Sorley, to write an elegy that stands as one of the great poems of Scotland and an affirmation of the values of the Gaidhealtachd:

. . . There is many a poor man in Scotland

whose spirit and name you raised:

you lifted the humble

whom the age put aside.

They gave you more

than they would give the others

since you gave them the zeal

that was a fire beneath your kindness.

They sensed the vehemence

that was gentle in your ways,

they understood the heavy depths of your humanity

when your fun was at its lightest . . .²⁵

Hamish’s second close colleague at the School of Scottish Studies was Francis Collinson, an Edinburgh musicologist with an intellectual cast of mind and a classical, very British reserve. The music of the ballads was his speciality and his interests complemented Hamish’s. Collinson was an exact and productive academic, a composer and collector: Hamish was a wordsmith with a phenomenal memory for people, places and songs, at his best in the field. Collinson would become author of several major scholarly books (The Traditional and National Music of Scotland and The Bagpipe – to which Hamish made contributions) but Hamish himself was never to write a book of prose scholarship. Academic productivity can create its own problems, however, as it did in what Hamish described as ‘the tragic case of Sylvia Douglas Gordon’. Sylvia was a grand-daughter of Gordon of Khartoum. She was brought up in London but became a doughty bearer of balladry from north-east Scotland. In 1945 she heard Collinson on the BBC and wrote to him from her smallholding in Derbyshire. She was less than 5 feet tall but ‘descended from the Gordons of Wardhouse and Kildrummie – where my people have kept the pass for centuries – and Lord Glenbervie of County Clare’. Her repertoire was huge but in the seven years before the School was established, Collinson visited her only once and recorded nothing. In 1953 Sylvia visited Edinburgh, met Hamish, and Collinson began to record her repertoire for the School. Returning to Derbyshire she writes:

Dear Mr Collinson, I have now made a list of ballads I remember singing and there are, at present, nearly a hundred . . .They are for the archives of our lovely Scotland, and, after what you told me about not knowing anyone else who has them, I am keener than ever to help you. It would be little short of tragic if I were to peg out and take these lovely melodies with me and they should be lost for ever.²⁶

Unfortunately, another seven years (punctuated by numerous heartbreaking letters) passed before arrangements for a new recording session was made. In August 1960 Sylvia informed Collinson that having dug ‘both words and music from ancient memory’ her own daughter had deliberately destroyed all her notes and writings:

I told you my system for raking these old things up – I must have a start – whether it be words or music – once I get that – bit by bit more comes. I do not know where I get these old ballads, if it is my own childhood memory, or ancestral memory, or my dear father getting through to me – probably a bit of all three – I am a Spiritualist you know . . . Yes, I do know the ‘Heir of Lynne’, and also the ‘Elfin Knight’ but I shall have to dig my brains to find the tunes.

Finally, in May 1962, this seventeen-year correspondence ends – with this letter from Collinson to Hamish: ‘Dear Hamish, you will be sorry to hear that my letter to Miss Douglas Gordon suggesting our visit to her this month has been returned to me by the Post Office – marked deceased. A long series of frustrations and other pressures of work prevented me from getting back to see her – and so ends a pious hope! We are fortunate to get the half dozen or so tunes from her, as they are all good, and vain regrets will do us no good! Francis Collinson.’

This lost opportunity gives poignancy to Hamish’s description of his attempts to record the oral riches of the Perthshire Travellers as ‘like holding a tin can under the Niagara Falls!’ It also shows why Hamish ‘dropped everything’ to harvest the repertoires of his singers – as if there were no tomorrow. If this meant the end of his own poetry, so be it. He would record as much as possible, as soon as possible. With limited skills and meagre resources this sometimes resulted in technically flawed recordings, but during his first ten years at the School he collected tens of thousands of songs, stories, rhymes, riddles, interviews and musical recordings from hundreds of people. Most of these recordings have been available in the SSS archive for sixty years. Many are now also available on the web and all are now the focus of a major digitising project. In a real sense Hamish got ‘the singers of Scotland’ to create a musical group-self-portrait, not just of themselves but of their nation. His tapes sometimes sound like the rough or damp houses within which they were recorded but – like many a good painter’s rough sketches – these recordings have soul, vivacity, spontaneity and a poetry that make them a unique national treasure.

Largely as a consequence of his loyalty to the School, to his singers and the idea of Scotland that they represented, Hamish wrote no serious poetry (or songs) between 1952 and 1958. His literary enemies have argued that in reality his muse had left him and that drink was already taking its toll: that folk collecting and advocacy of the ‘genius’ of the folk was merely an excuse for personal failure. That Hamish hit a ‘creative block’ at this time is undeniable but, with his career as a political activist still in full flow, he was working like two men most of the time, and the idea that no artist is allowed to change the nature and focus of their activities seems wilfully destructive. Of course many were quietly pleased to see the ‘big man’ struggling. A secretary in the School recalls Stewart Sanderson describing Hamish as ‘a poet out of commission’. Such criticism hurt, but Hamish’s ambitions as a poet had always stretched beyond named authorship of slim volumes of verse. Poetry, for him, was the ultimate expression of man’s humanity to man, a calling that demanded a national address. Consequently he saw his work within the School as a God-given chance to get Scotland to sing again: in doing that, he believed, the nation would sing itself back into being. Naturally, however, ‘the idea of poetry’ gnawed at him lifelong, as this letter to E.P. Thompson, written in 1980, makes clear:

As you know your judgement means a great deal to me . . . Ever since the publication of the Elegies I have been trying to complete a new long poem on a very different theme – communism and liberty, a period in which communism has got bogged down in a morass of corruption and contradiction. Time goes by and I get no forrader. o see a way out – I can leave a petrified forest of Stalinist axioms behind for ever . . . Who I wonder knows that since the last Stalinist years I’ve felt my power gone completely . . . I have of course published some of these poems – but what has been published so far is not the whole truth: as Wittgenstein said, ‘Silence is sometimes not only a virtue – it is a necessity.’

More excuses? Or does Hamish, here, seek to take unto himself the kind of guilt the world likes to thrust on Stalin? Did the exposure of Stalin as a paranoid mass murderer shock him into silence and creative self-hatred? I think not, or at least only partially, because the year of Stalin’s death, 1953, was also the year in which Hamish discovered the Aberdeen Traveller Jeannie Robertson, whom Alan Lomax was soon describing as the greatest ballad singer in the world. At the very moment when the Soviet experiment was being brought to its knees, Hamish was saved from despair by the appearance of a singer who embodied sublime beauty and human resilience beyond measure. With Jeannie unearthed, Hamish knew that the School stood on foundations of rock. Here was genius. Here was Scotland incarnate. Here was a woman and a dispossessed people for whom he would lay down his life. What was his poetry compared with this reality? Here was a muse for the whole Scots people. To have turned his back on Jeannie – to write private verses – would have been ‘pure sodomy of soul’ as Burns put it.

Within days of first recording Jeannie Robertson, Hamish took her to Edinburgh to sing at the People’s Festival.²⁷ Recordings of her songs were soon winging their way to Alan Lomax in New York, to Ewan MacColl in London, to Douglas and Peter Kennedy at the English Folk Dance and Song Society. World folk culture had a new heroine, the Scots Folk Revival the