When I was in primary school for one week every year we were not only given permission to say naughty words, but were actively encouraged to stand up in front of the class and recite them from memory. Unfortunately, these weren’t the fun ones that the older kids used, instead they were the ones that made you sound like an extra in Game of Thrones.

I hated Scots Verse week at my school, not because I was nervous or shy – nothing as humble as that – no, I hated it because I didn’t understand the point. Scots wasn’t a language of poetry or prose; it wasn’t even a language reserved for decent conversation. Almost every time I had heard Scots mentioned it was immediately qualified with words like ‘dialect’ and ‘slang’. So, for my school to make a complete 180 degree turn on its Scots ‘slang’ policy for a few days every year in the name of poetry felt slightly hypocritical to me. Were these words literary or not? Why were we not allowed to use them in common speech if they were acceptable for poetry? I don’t want to exaggerate the level of anti-Scots sentiment there was when I was growing up; we weren’t belted for using Scots like 18th century Gaelic-speaking children, it was subtler than that. I didn’t need to be belted to stop me speaking Scots because it had been ingrained into me that if you wanted to speak properly, be understood, be respected then your only option was English. Besides, why would I want to use words that made me physically cringe? I just didn’t get it.

That cringe is felt by many Scots when we hear the language of our ancestors. Some of the most active opposition to Scots comes from Scottish people; being associated with the tartan biscuit tin in the gift shop of linguistics makes them feel silly and provincial. Scots is seen by many as an extension of the Balmoralist Jock kitsch that has latched itself (or been forced) onto Scottish culture; commodifying everything it touches from tartan bonnets lined with cheap ginger wigs to depictions of Robert Burns deradicalized enough to become a pop-art fridge magnet. For many it has become something else to be ashamed of – less a national language and more a national embarrassment. It’s English spelt wrong or with a funny accent. As I got older that knee-jerk cringe subsided but even today I can still feel my eye twitching a bit at Burns suppers.

It wasn’t until I went to uni that I really started to make some headway against this self-reflexive prejudice. For the first time I was introduced to a literary lineage that extends back far beyond the Heaven-Taught Ploughman to Lyndsay, Dunbar, Douglas, and Henryson. Here was poetry in Scots filled with the assuredness of poets confident in the power and value of their own language. There are Aesopian fables with new twists; mythological battles between the sexes; and one of the earliest recorded uses of ‘fucking’ in a proto-rap battle against a king. There are a huge variety of genres, styles, and registers apparent just within the few writers I’ve been able to study closely, and that doesn’t even begin to reflect the diffusion of Scots throughout medieval Scottish life in the courts of its kings, the word of its laws, and the conversation of its people. Burns does a great job of presenting the myriad voices of Scotland but I have to agree with Hugh McDiarmid’s rallying cry ‘Not Burns – Dunbar!’. If the only Scottish poetry you ever read is on the 25th January and written by a taxman from Ayrshire then you’ll be treated to some of the finest verse written in any language, verse that speaks for and with the voices of a nation. But, if you really want to hear those voices in their multitude then listen to them yourself. That doesn’t mean substituting one bard for another but appreciating the works of the old makars in relation to the songs of Burns as well as all those before, beyond, and in between.

There is far more to Scots than Burns just as there is far more to Scotland than duty free shortbread (although both cases are a good place to start). As a written language its life was cut short by the development of Burghs, the migration of the Scottish court to London, and the publishing of a Bible translation in English among other things, but, almost remarkably, it has continued to survive and, in many cases, thrive as an oral language of conversation. The advent of less formal written communication like texts and social media has allowed Scots to once again be shared in writing, and a lack of spelling convention is revealing the various mutations and dialects the language has developed while eschewed from written records. Scots is alive and well. So this year, if you find yourself itching for more after a particularly rowdy Zoom Burns Supper, make yourself a hot toddy, climb under your tartan blanket, and dive deeper into the world of Scots – maybe you’ll even get the leid.