I amna’ fou’ sae muckle as tired—deid dune.It’s gey and hard wark’ coupin’ gless for glessWi’ Cruivie and Gilsanquhar and the like,And I’m no’ juist as bauld as aince I wes.The elbuck fankles in the coorse o’ time,The sheckle’s no’ sae souple, and the thrappleGrows deef and dour: nae langer up and dounGleg as a squirrel speils the Adam’s apple.Forbye, the stuffie’s no’ the real Mackay.The sun’s sel’ aince, as sune as ye began it,Riz in your vera saul: but what keeks inNoo is in truth the vilest “saxpenny planet.”And as the worth’s gane doun the cost has risen.Yin canna thow the cockles o’ yin’s hertWi’oot ha’en’ cauld feet noo, jalousin’ whatThe wife’ll say (I dinna blame her fur’t).It’s robbin’ Peter to pey Paul at least....And a’ that’s Scotch aboot it is the name,Like a’ thing else ca’d Scottish nooadays—A’ destitute o’ speerit juist the same.(To prove my saul is Scots I maun beginWi’ what’s still deemed Scots and the folk expect,And spire up syne by visible degreesTo heichts whereo’ the fules ha’e never recked.But aince I get them there I’ll whummle themAnd souse the craturs in the nether deeps,—For it’s nae choice, and ony man s’ud wishTo dree the goat’s weird tae as weel’s the sheep’s!)Heifetz in tartan, and Sir Harry Lauder!Whaur’s Isadora Duncan dancin’ noo?Is Mary Garden in Chicago stillAnd Duncan Grant in Paris—and me fou’?Sic transit gloria Scotia—a’ the floo’ersO’ the Forest are wede awa’. (A blin’ bird’s nestIs aiblins biggin’ in the thistle tho’?...And better blin’ if’ts brood is like the rest!)You canna gang to a Burns supper evenWi’oot some wizened scrunt o’ a knock-kneeChinee turns roon to say, “Him Haggis—velly goot!”And ten to wan the piper is a Cockney.No’ wan in fifty kens a wurd Burns wroteBut misapplied is a’body’s property,And gin there was his like alive the dayThey’d be the last a kennin’ haund to gie—Croose London Scotties wi’ their braw shirt frontsAnd a’ their fancy freen’s, rejoicin’That similah gatherings in Timbuctoo,Bagdad—and Hell, nae doot—are voicin’Burns’ sentiments o’ universal love,In pidgin’ English or in wild-fowl Scots,And toastin’ ane wha’s nocht to them but anExcuse for faitherin’ Genius wi’theirthochts.A’they’veto say was aften said aforeA lad was born in Kyle to blaw aboot.What unco fate mak’shimthe dumpin’-grun’For a’ the sloppy rubbish they jaw oot?Mair nonsense has been uttered in his nameThan in ony’s barrin’ liberty and Christ.If this keeps spreedin’ as the drink declines,Syne turns to tea, wae’s me for theZeitgeist!Rabbie, wad’st thou wert here—the warld hath need,And Scotland mair sae, o’ the likes o’ thee!The whisky that aince moved your lyre’s becomeA laxative for a’ loquacity.O gin they’d stegh their guts and haud their wheeshtI’d thole it, for “a man’s a man,” I ken,But though the feck ha’e plenty o’ the “a’ that,”They’re nocht but zoologically men.I’m haverin’, Rabbie, but ye understaun’It gets my dander up to see your starA bauble in Babel, banged like a saxpence’Twixt Burbank’s Baedeker and Bleistein’s cigar.There’s nane sae ignorant but think they canExpatiate onyou, if on nae ither.The sumphs ha’e ta’en you at your wird, and, fegs!The foziest o’ them claims to be a—Brither!Syne “Here’s the cheenge”—the star o’ Rabbie Burns.Sma’ cheenge, “Twinkle, Twinkle.” The memory slipsAs G. K. Chesterton heaves up to gi’e“The Immortal Memory” in a huge eclipse,Or somebody else as famous if less fat.You left the like in Embro’ in a scunnerTo booze wi’ thieveless cronies sic as me.I’se warrant you’d shy clear o’ a’ the hunnerOdd Burns’ Clubs tae, or ninety-nine o’ them,And haud your birthday in a different kipWhaur your name isna’ ta’en in vain—as ChristGied a’ Jerusalem’s Pharisees the slip,—Christ wha’d ha’e been Chief Rabbi gin he’d lik’t!—Wi’ publicans and sinners to forgether,But, losh! the publicans noo are Pharisees,And I’m no’ shair o’ maist the sinners either.But that’s aside the point! I’ve got fair waun’ert.It’s no’ that I’m sae fou’ as juist deid dune,And dinna ken as muckle’s whaur I amOr hoo I’ve come to sprawl here ’neth the muneThat’s it! It isna me that’s fou’ at a’,But the fu’ mune, the doited jade, that’s ledMe fer agley, or ’mogrified the warld.—For a’ I ken I’m safe in my ain bed.Jean! Jean!Ginshe’s no’ here it’s no’oorbed,Or else I’m dreamin’ deep and canna wauken,But it’s a fell queer dream if this is no’A real hillside—and thae things thistles and bracken!It’s hard wark haud’n by a thocht worth ha’en’And harder speakin’t, and no’ for ilka man;Maist Thocht’s like whisky—a thoosan’ under proof,And a sair price is pitten on’t even than.As Kirks wi’ Christianity ha’e dune,Burns’ Clubs wi’ Burns—wi’ a’thing it’s the same,The core o’ ocht is only for the few,Scorned by the mony, thrang wi’ts empty name.And a’ the names in History mean nochtTo maist folk but “ideas o’ their ain,”The vera opposite o’ onythingThe Deid ’ud awn gin they cam’ back again.A greater Christ, a greater Burns, may come.The maist they’ll dae is to gi’e bigger pegsTo folly and conceit to hank their rubbish on.They’ll cheenge folks’ talk but no their natures, fegs!I maun feed frae the common trough ana’Whaur a’ the lees o’ hope are jumbled up;While centuries like pigs are slorpin’ owre’tSall my wee ’oor be cryin’: “Let pass this cup?”In wi’ your gruntle then, puir wheengin’ saul,Lap up the ugsome aidle wi’ the lave,What gin it’s your ain vomit that you swillAnd frae Life’s gantin’ and unfaddomed grave?I doot I’m geylies mixed, like Life itsel’,But I was never ane that thocht to pitAn ocean in a mutchkin. As the haill’sMair than the pairt sae I than reason yet.I dinna haud the warld’s end in my heidAs maist folk think they dae; nor filter truthIn fishy gills through which its tides may poorFor onyanimalculæforsooth.I lauch to see my crazy little brain—And ither folks’—tak’n itsel’ seriously,And in a sudden lowe o’ fun my saulBlinks dozent as the owl I ken’t to be.I’ll ha’e nae hauf-way hoose, but aye be whaurExtremes meet—it’s the only way I kenTo dodge the curst conceit o’ bein’ richtThat damns the vast majority o’ men.I’ll bury nae heid like an ostrich’s,Nor yet believe my een and naething else.My senses may advise me, but I’ll beMysel’ nae maitter what they tell’s....I ha’e nae doot some foreign philosopherHas wrocht a system oot to justifyA’ this: but I’m a Scot wha blin’ly followsAuld Scottish instincts, and I winna try.For I’ve nae faith in ocht I can explain,And stert whaur the philosophers leave aff,Content to glimpse its loops I dinna ettleTo land the sea serpent’s sel’ wi’ ony gaff.Like staundin’ water in a pocket o’Impervious clay I pray I’ll never be,Cut aff and self-sufficient, but let reengeHeichts o’ the lift and benmaist deeps o’ sea.Water! Water! There was owre muckle o’tIn yonder whisky, sae I’m in deep water(And gin I could wun hame I’d be in het,For even Jean maun natter, natter, natter)....And in the toon that I belang tae—What tho’ts Montrose or Nazareth?—Helplessly the folk continueTo lead their livin’ death!...[1]At darknin’ hings abune the howffA weet and wild and eisenin’ air.Spring’s spirit wi’ its waesome soughRules owre the drucken stramash there.And heich abune the vennel’s pokiness,Whaur a’ the white-weshed cottons lie;The Inn’s sign blinters in the mochiness,And lood and shrill the bairnies cry.The hauflins ’yont the burgh boondsGang ilka nicht, and a’ the same,Their bonnets cocked; their bluid that stoundsIs playin’ at a fine auld game.And on the lochan there, hauf-hertedWee screams and creakin’ oar-locks soon’,And in the lift, heich, hauf-averted,The mune looks owre the yirdly roon’.And ilka evenin’, derf and serious(Jean ettles nocht o’ this, puir lass),In liquor, raw yet still mysterious,A’e freend’s aye mirrored in my glass.Ahint the sheenin’ coonter gruffThrang barmen ding the tumblers doun“In vino veritas” cry roughAnd reid-een’d fules that in it droon.But ilka evenin’ fey and fremt(Is it a dream nae wauk’nin’ proves?)As to a trystin’-place undreamt,A silken leddy darkly moves.Slow gangs she by the drunken anes,And lanely by the winnock sits;Frae’r robes, atour the sunken anes,A rooky dwamin’ perfume flits.Her gleamin’ silks, the taperin’O’ her ringed fingers, and her feathersMove dimly like a dream wi’in,While endless faith aboot them gethers.I seek, in this captivity,To pierce the veils that darklin’ fa’—See white clints slidin’ to the sea,And hear the horns o’ Elfland blaw.I ha’e dark secrets’ turns and twists,A sun is gi’en to me to haud,The whisky in my bluid insists,And spiers my benmaist history, lad.And owre my brain the flitterin’O’ the dim feathers gangs aince mair,And, faddomless, the dark blue glitterin’O’ twa een in the ocean there.My soul stores up this wealth unspent,The key is safe and nane’s but mine.You’re richt, auld drunk impenitent,I ken it tae—the truth’s in wine!The munelicht’s like a lookin’-glass,The thistle’s like mysel’,But whaur ye’ve gane, my bonnie lass.Is mair than I can tell.Were you a vision o’ mysel’,Transmuted by the mellow liquor?Neist time I glisk you in a glass,I’se warrant I’ll mak’ siccar.A man’s a clean contrairy sichtTurned this way in-ootside,And, fegs, I feel like Dr JekyllTak’n guid tent o’ Mr Hyde....Gurly thistle—hic—you cannaDaunton me wi’ your shaggy mien,I’m sair—hic—needin’ a shave,That’s plainly to be seen.But what aboot it—hic—aboot it?Mony a man’s been that afore.It’s no’ a fact that in his lugsA wund like this need roar!...[2]I hae forekent ye! O I hae forekent.The years forecast your face afore they went.A licht I canna thole is in the lift.I bide in silence your slow-comin’ pace.The ends o’ space are bricht: at last—oh swift!While terror clings to me—an unkent face!Ill-faith stirs in me as she comes at last,The features lang forekent ... are unforecast.O it gangs hard wi’me, I am forspent.Deid dreams ha’e beaten me and a face unkentAnd generations that I thocht unbornHail the strange Goddess frae my hert’s-hert torn!...Or dost thou mak’ a thistle o’ me, wumman? But for theeI were as happy as the munelicht, withoot care,But thocht o’ thee—o’ thy contempt and ire—Turns hauf the warld into the youky thistle there,Feedin’ on the munelicht and transformin’ itTo this wanrestfu’ growth that winna let me be.The munelicht is the freedom that I’d ha’eBut for this cursèd Conscience thou hast set in me.It is morality, the knowledge o’ Guid and Ill,Fear, shame, pity, like a will and wilyart growth,That kills a’ else wi’in its reach and cravesNae less at last than a’ the warld to gi’e it scouth.The need to wark, the need to think, the need to be,And a’ thing that twists Life into a certain shapeAnd interferes wi’ perfect liberty—These feed this Frankenstein that nae man can escape.For ilka thing a man can be or think or daeAye leaves a million mair unbeen, unthocht, undune,Till his puir warped performance is,To a’ that micht ha’ been, a thistle to the mune.It is Mortality itsel’—the mortal coil,Mockin’ Perfection, Man afore the Throne o’ God.He yet has bigged himsel’, Man torn in twaAnd glorious in the lift and grisly on the sod!...There’s nocht sae sober as a man blin’ drunk.I maun ha’e got an unco bellyfu’To jaw like this—and yet what I am sayin’Is a’ the apter, aiblins, to be true.This munelicht’s fell like whisky noo I see’t.—Am I a thingum mebbe that is keptPreserved in spirits in a muckle bottleLang centuries efter sin’ wi’ Jean I slept?—Mounted on a hillside, wi’ the thistlesAnd bracken for verisimilitude,Like a stuffed bird on metal like a brainch,Or a seal on a stump o’ rock-like wood?Or am I juist a figure in a sceneO’ Scottish life A.D. one-nine-two-five?The haill thing kelters like a theatre claithTill I micht fancy that I was alive!I dinna ken and nae man ever can.I micht be in my ain bed efter a’.The haill damned thing’s a dream for ocht we ken,—The Warld and Life and Daith, Heaven, Hell ana’.We maun juist tak’ things as we find them then,And mak’ a kirk or mill o’ them as we can,—And yet I feel this muckle thistle’s staun’in’Atween me and the mune as pairt o’ a Plan.It isna there—nor me—by accident.We’re brocht thegither for a certain reason,Ev’n gin it’s naething mair than juist to gi’eMy jaded soul a necessaryfrisson.I never saw afore a thistle quiteSae intimately, or at sic an ’oor.There’s something in the fickle licht that gi’esA different life to’t and an unco poo’er.[3]“Rootit on gressless peaks, whaur its erectAnd jaggy leafs, austerely cauld and dumb,Haud the slow scaly serpent in respect,The Gothic thistle, whaur the insect’s humSoon’s fer aff, lifts abune the rock it scornsIts rigid virtue for the Heavens to see.The too’ering boulders gaird it. And the beeMak’s honey frae the roses on its thorns.”But that’s a Belgian refugee, of coorse.ThisFreudian complex has somehoo slunkenFrae Scotland’s soul—the Scots aboulia—Whilst a’ itsterra nulliusisbetrunken.And a’ the country roon’ aboot it nooLies clapt and shrunken syne like somebody whaHas lang o’ seven devils been possessed;Then when he turns a corner tines them a’,Or like a body that has tint its soul.Perched like a monkey on its heedless kist,Or like a sea that peacefu’ fa’s againWhen frae its deeps an octopus is fished.I canna feel it has to dae wi’ meMair than a composite diagram o’Cross-sections o’ my forbears’ organs—And mine—’ud bring a kind o’ freen’ly glow.And yet like bindweed through my clay it’s run,And a’ my folks’—it’s queer to see’t unroll.My ain soul looks me in the face, as ’twere,And mair than my ain soul—my nation’s soul!And sall a Belgian pit it into wordsAnd sing a sang to’t syne, and no’ a Scot?Oors is a wilder thistle, and RamaekersCanna bear aff the gree—avaunt the thocht!To meddle wi’ the thistle and to pluckThe figs frae’t ismymetier, I think.Awak’, my muse, and gin you’re in puir fettle,We aye can blame it on th’ inferior drink.T. S. Eliot—it’s a Scottish name—Afore he wrote ‘The Waste Land’ s’ud ha’e comeTo Scotland here. He wad ha’e writtenA better poem syne—like this, by gum!Type o’ the wissenschaftsfeindlichkeit,Begriffsmüdigkeit that has gar’tMen try Morphologies der Weltgeschichte,And mad Expressionismus syne in Art.[4]A shameless thing, for ilka vileness able,It is deid grey as dust, the dust o’ a man.I perish o’ a nearness I canna win awa’ frae,Its deidly coils aboot my buik are thrawn.A shaggy poulp, embracin’ me and stingin’,And as a serpent cauld agen’ my hert.Its scales are poisoned shafts that jag me to the quick—And waur than them’s my scunner’s fearfu’ smert!O that its prickles were a knife indeed,But it is thowless, flabby, dowf, and numb.Sae sluggishly it drains my benmaist lifeA dozent dragon, dreidfu’, deef, and dumb.In mum obscurity it twines its obstinate ringsAnd hings caressin’ly, its purpose whole;And this deid thing, whale-white obscenity,This horror that I writhe in—is my soul!Is it the munelicht or a leprosyThat spreids aboot me; and a thistleOr my ain skeleton through wha’s bare banesA fiendish wund’s begood to whistle?The devil’s lauchter has ahwlllike this.My face has flown open like a lid—And gibberin’ on the hillside thereIs a’ humanity sae lang has hid!...My harns are seaweed—when the tide is inThey swall like blethers and in comfort float,But when the tide is oot they lie like gealedAnd runkled auld bluid-vessels in a knot!The munelicht ebbs and flows and wi’t my thocht,Noo’ movin’ mellow and noo lourd and rough.I ken what I am like in Life and Daith,But Life and Daith for nae man are enough....And O! to think that there are members o’St Andrew’s Societies sleepin’ soon’,Wha to the papers wrote afore they beddedOn regimental buttons or buckled shoon,Or use o’ England whaur the U.K.’s meent,Or this or that anent the Blue Saltire,Recruitin’, pedigrees, and Gude kens what,Filled wi’ a proper patriotic fire!Wad I were them—they’ve chosen a better pairt,The couthie craturs, than the ane I’ve ta’en,Tyauvin’ wi’ this root-hewn Scottis soul;A fer, fer better pairt—except for men.Nae doot they’re sober, as a Scot ne’er was,Each tethered to a punctual-snorin’ missus,Whilst I, puir fule, owre continents unkentAnd wine-dark oceans waunder like Ulysses....[5]The Mune sits on my bed the nicht unsocht,And mak’s my soul obedient to her will;And in the dumb-deid, still as dreams are still,Her pupils narrow to bricht threids that thrillAboot the sensuous windin’s o’ her thocht.But ilka windin’ has its coonter-pairt—The opposite ’thoot which it couldna be—In some wild kink or queer perversityO’ this great thistle, green wi’ jealousy,That breenges ’twixt the munelicht and my hert....Plant, what are you then? Your leafsMind me o’ the pipes’ lood drone—And a’ your purple topsAre the pirly-wirly notesThat gang staggerin’ owre them as they groan.Or your leafs are alligatorsThat ha’e gobbled owre a haillCompany o’ Heilant sodgers,And left naethin’ but the tooriesO’ their Balmoral bonnets to tell the tale.Or a muckle bellows blawin’Wi’ the sperks a’ whizzin’ oot;Or green tides sweeshin’’Neth heich-skeich stars,Or centuries fleein’ doun a water-chute.Grinnin’ gargoyle by a saint,Mephistopheles in Heaven,Skeleton at a tea-meetin’,Missin’ link—or creakin’Hinge atween the deid and livin’....(I kent a Terrier in a sham fecht aince,Wha louped a dyke and landed on a thistle.He’d naething on ava aneth his kilt.Schönberg has nae notation for his whistle.)...(Gin you’re surprised a village drunkForeign references s’ud fool in,You ha’ena the respect you s’udFor oor guid Scottish schoolin’.For we’ve the maist unlikely folkAye braggin’ o’ oor lear,And, tho’ I’m drunk, for Scotland’s sakeI tak’ my barrowsteel here!Yet Europe’s faur eneuch for me,Puir fule, when bairns ken mairO’ th’ ither warld than I o’ this—But that’s no’ here nor there!)...Guid sakes, I’m in a dreidfu’ state.I’ll ha’e nae inklin’ suneGin I’m the drinker or the drink,The thistle or the mune.I’m geylies feart I couldna tellGin I su’d lay me doonThe difference betwixt the warldAnd my ain heid gaen’ roon’!...Drums in the Walligate, pipes in the air,Come and hear the cryin’ o’ the Fair.A’ as it used to be, when I was a loonOn Common-Ridin’ Day in the Muckle Toon.The bearer twirls the Bannock-and-Saut-Herrin’,The Croon o’ Roses through the lift is farin’,The aucht-fit thistle wallops on hie;In heather besoms a’ the hills gang by.But noo it’s a’ the fish o’ the seaNailed on the roond o’ the Earth to me.Beauty and Love that are bobbin’ there;Syne the breengin’ growth that alane I bear;And Scotland followin’ on ahintFor threepenny bits spleet-new frae the mint.Drums in the Walligate, pipes in the air,The wallopin’ thistle is ill to bear.But I’ll dance the nicht wi’ the stars o’ HeavenIn the Mairket Place as shair’s I’m livin’.Easy to cairry roses or herrin’,And the lave may weel their threepenny bits earn.Devil the star! It’s Jean I’ll ha’eAgain as she was on her weddin’ day....Nerves in stounds o’ delight,Muscles in pride o’ power,Bluid as wi’ roses dightLife’s toppin’ pinnacles owre,The thistle yet’ll uniteMan and the Infinite!Swippert and swith wi’ virrIn the howes o’ man’s hertForever its muckle roots stirLike a Leviathan astert,Till’ts coils like a thistle’s leafsSweep space wi’ levin sheafs.Frae laichest deeps o’ the oceanIt rises in flight upon flight,And ’yont its uttermaist motionCan still set roses alight,As else unreachable heightFa’s under its triumphin’ sight.Here is the root that feedsThe shank wi’ the blindin’ wingsDwinin’ abuneheid to gleidsLike stars in their keethin’ rings,And blooms in sunrise and sunsetInowre Eternity’s yett.
I amna’ fou’ sae muckle as tired—deid dune.It’s gey and hard wark’ coupin’ gless for glessWi’ Cruivie and Gilsanquhar and the like,And I’m no’ juist as bauld as aince I wes.The elbuck fankles in the coorse o’ time,The sheckle’s no’ sae souple, and the thrappleGrows deef and dour: nae langer up and dounGleg as a squirrel speils the Adam’s apple.Forbye, the stuffie’s no’ the real Mackay.The sun’s sel’ aince, as sune as ye began it,Riz in your vera saul: but what keeks inNoo is in truth the vilest “saxpenny planet.”And as the worth’s gane doun the cost has risen.Yin canna thow the cockles o’ yin’s hertWi’oot ha’en’ cauld feet noo, jalousin’ whatThe wife’ll say (I dinna blame her fur’t).It’s robbin’ Peter to pey Paul at least....And a’ that’s Scotch aboot it is the name,Like a’ thing else ca’d Scottish nooadays—A’ destitute o’ speerit juist the same.(To prove my saul is Scots I maun beginWi’ what’s still deemed Scots and the folk expect,And spire up syne by visible degreesTo heichts whereo’ the fules ha’e never recked.But aince I get them there I’ll whummle themAnd souse the craturs in the nether deeps,—For it’s nae choice, and ony man s’ud wishTo dree the goat’s weird tae as weel’s the sheep’s!)Heifetz in tartan, and Sir Harry Lauder!Whaur’s Isadora Duncan dancin’ noo?Is Mary Garden in Chicago stillAnd Duncan Grant in Paris—and me fou’?Sic transit gloria Scotia—a’ the floo’ersO’ the Forest are wede awa’. (A blin’ bird’s nestIs aiblins biggin’ in the thistle tho’?...And better blin’ if’ts brood is like the rest!)You canna gang to a Burns supper evenWi’oot some wizened scrunt o’ a knock-kneeChinee turns roon to say, “Him Haggis—velly goot!”And ten to wan the piper is a Cockney.No’ wan in fifty kens a wurd Burns wroteBut misapplied is a’body’s property,And gin there was his like alive the dayThey’d be the last a kennin’ haund to gie—Croose London Scotties wi’ their braw shirt frontsAnd a’ their fancy freen’s, rejoicin’That similah gatherings in Timbuctoo,Bagdad—and Hell, nae doot—are voicin’Burns’ sentiments o’ universal love,In pidgin’ English or in wild-fowl Scots,And toastin’ ane wha’s nocht to them but anExcuse for faitherin’ Genius wi’theirthochts.A’they’veto say was aften said aforeA lad was born in Kyle to blaw aboot.What unco fate mak’shimthe dumpin’-grun’For a’ the sloppy rubbish they jaw oot?Mair nonsense has been uttered in his nameThan in ony’s barrin’ liberty and Christ.If this keeps spreedin’ as the drink declines,Syne turns to tea, wae’s me for theZeitgeist!Rabbie, wad’st thou wert here—the warld hath need,And Scotland mair sae, o’ the likes o’ thee!The whisky that aince moved your lyre’s becomeA laxative for a’ loquacity.O gin they’d stegh their guts and haud their wheeshtI’d thole it, for “a man’s a man,” I ken,But though the feck ha’e plenty o’ the “a’ that,”They’re nocht but zoologically men.I’m haverin’, Rabbie, but ye understaun’It gets my dander up to see your starA bauble in Babel, banged like a saxpence’Twixt Burbank’s Baedeker and Bleistein’s cigar.There’s nane sae ignorant but think they canExpatiate onyou, if on nae ither.The sumphs ha’e ta’en you at your wird, and, fegs!The foziest o’ them claims to be a—Brither!Syne “Here’s the cheenge”—the star o’ Rabbie Burns.Sma’ cheenge, “Twinkle, Twinkle.” The memory slipsAs G. K. Chesterton heaves up to gi’e“The Immortal Memory” in a huge eclipse,Or somebody else as famous if less fat.You left the like in Embro’ in a scunnerTo booze wi’ thieveless cronies sic as me.I’se warrant you’d shy clear o’ a’ the hunnerOdd Burns’ Clubs tae, or ninety-nine o’ them,And haud your birthday in a different kipWhaur your name isna’ ta’en in vain—as ChristGied a’ Jerusalem’s Pharisees the slip,—Christ wha’d ha’e been Chief Rabbi gin he’d lik’t!—Wi’ publicans and sinners to forgether,But, losh! the publicans noo are Pharisees,And I’m no’ shair o’ maist the sinners either.But that’s aside the point! I’ve got fair waun’ert.It’s no’ that I’m sae fou’ as juist deid dune,And dinna ken as muckle’s whaur I amOr hoo I’ve come to sprawl here ’neth the muneThat’s it! It isna me that’s fou’ at a’,But the fu’ mune, the doited jade, that’s ledMe fer agley, or ’mogrified the warld.—For a’ I ken I’m safe in my ain bed.Jean! Jean!Ginshe’s no’ here it’s no’oorbed,Or else I’m dreamin’ deep and canna wauken,But it’s a fell queer dream if this is no’A real hillside—and thae things thistles and bracken!It’s hard wark haud’n by a thocht worth ha’en’And harder speakin’t, and no’ for ilka man;Maist Thocht’s like whisky—a thoosan’ under proof,And a sair price is pitten on’t even than.As Kirks wi’ Christianity ha’e dune,Burns’ Clubs wi’ Burns—wi’ a’thing it’s the same,The core o’ ocht is only for the few,Scorned by the mony, thrang wi’ts empty name.And a’ the names in History mean nochtTo maist folk but “ideas o’ their ain,”The vera opposite o’ onythingThe Deid ’ud awn gin they cam’ back again.A greater Christ, a greater Burns, may come.The maist they’ll dae is to gi’e bigger pegsTo folly and conceit to hank their rubbish on.They’ll cheenge folks’ talk but no their natures, fegs!I maun feed frae the common trough ana’Whaur a’ the lees o’ hope are jumbled up;While centuries like pigs are slorpin’ owre’tSall my wee ’oor be cryin’: “Let pass this cup?”In wi’ your gruntle then, puir wheengin’ saul,Lap up the ugsome aidle wi’ the lave,What gin it’s your ain vomit that you swillAnd frae Life’s gantin’ and unfaddomed grave?I doot I’m geylies mixed, like Life itsel’,But I was never ane that thocht to pitAn ocean in a mutchkin. As the haill’sMair than the pairt sae I than reason yet.I dinna haud the warld’s end in my heidAs maist folk think they dae; nor filter truthIn fishy gills through which its tides may poorFor onyanimalculæforsooth.I lauch to see my crazy little brain—And ither folks’—tak’n itsel’ seriously,And in a sudden lowe o’ fun my saulBlinks dozent as the owl I ken’t to be.I’ll ha’e nae hauf-way hoose, but aye be whaurExtremes meet—it’s the only way I kenTo dodge the curst conceit o’ bein’ richtThat damns the vast majority o’ men.I’ll bury nae heid like an ostrich’s,Nor yet believe my een and naething else.My senses may advise me, but I’ll beMysel’ nae maitter what they tell’s....I ha’e nae doot some foreign philosopherHas wrocht a system oot to justifyA’ this: but I’m a Scot wha blin’ly followsAuld Scottish instincts, and I winna try.For I’ve nae faith in ocht I can explain,And stert whaur the philosophers leave aff,Content to glimpse its loops I dinna ettleTo land the sea serpent’s sel’ wi’ ony gaff.Like staundin’ water in a pocket o’Impervious clay I pray I’ll never be,Cut aff and self-sufficient, but let reengeHeichts o’ the lift and benmaist deeps o’ sea.Water! Water! There was owre muckle o’tIn yonder whisky, sae I’m in deep water(And gin I could wun hame I’d be in het,For even Jean maun natter, natter, natter)....And in the toon that I belang tae—What tho’ts Montrose or Nazareth?—Helplessly the folk continueTo lead their livin’ death!...[1]At darknin’ hings abune the howffA weet and wild and eisenin’ air.Spring’s spirit wi’ its waesome soughRules owre the drucken stramash there.And heich abune the vennel’s pokiness,Whaur a’ the white-weshed cottons lie;The Inn’s sign blinters in the mochiness,And lood and shrill the bairnies cry.The hauflins ’yont the burgh boondsGang ilka nicht, and a’ the same,Their bonnets cocked; their bluid that stoundsIs playin’ at a fine auld game.And on the lochan there, hauf-hertedWee screams and creakin’ oar-locks soon’,And in the lift, heich, hauf-averted,The mune looks owre the yirdly roon’.And ilka evenin’, derf and serious(Jean ettles nocht o’ this, puir lass),In liquor, raw yet still mysterious,A’e freend’s aye mirrored in my glass.Ahint the sheenin’ coonter gruffThrang barmen ding the tumblers doun“In vino veritas” cry roughAnd reid-een’d fules that in it droon.But ilka evenin’ fey and fremt(Is it a dream nae wauk’nin’ proves?)As to a trystin’-place undreamt,A silken leddy darkly moves.Slow gangs she by the drunken anes,And lanely by the winnock sits;Frae’r robes, atour the sunken anes,A rooky dwamin’ perfume flits.Her gleamin’ silks, the taperin’O’ her ringed fingers, and her feathersMove dimly like a dream wi’in,While endless faith aboot them gethers.I seek, in this captivity,To pierce the veils that darklin’ fa’—See white clints slidin’ to the sea,And hear the horns o’ Elfland blaw.I ha’e dark secrets’ turns and twists,A sun is gi’en to me to haud,The whisky in my bluid insists,And spiers my benmaist history, lad.And owre my brain the flitterin’O’ the dim feathers gangs aince mair,And, faddomless, the dark blue glitterin’O’ twa een in the ocean there.My soul stores up this wealth unspent,The key is safe and nane’s but mine.You’re richt, auld drunk impenitent,I ken it tae—the truth’s in wine!The munelicht’s like a lookin’-glass,The thistle’s like mysel’,But whaur ye’ve gane, my bonnie lass.Is mair than I can tell.Were you a vision o’ mysel’,Transmuted by the mellow liquor?Neist time I glisk you in a glass,I’se warrant I’ll mak’ siccar.A man’s a clean contrairy sichtTurned this way in-ootside,And, fegs, I feel like Dr JekyllTak’n guid tent o’ Mr Hyde....Gurly thistle—hic—you cannaDaunton me wi’ your shaggy mien,I’m sair—hic—needin’ a shave,That’s plainly to be seen.But what aboot it—hic—aboot it?Mony a man’s been that afore.It’s no’ a fact that in his lugsA wund like this need roar!...[2]I hae forekent ye! O I hae forekent.The years forecast your face afore they went.A licht I canna thole is in the lift.I bide in silence your slow-comin’ pace.The ends o’ space are bricht: at last—oh swift!While terror clings to me—an unkent face!Ill-faith stirs in me as she comes at last,The features lang forekent ... are unforecast.O it gangs hard wi’me, I am forspent.Deid dreams ha’e beaten me and a face unkentAnd generations that I thocht unbornHail the strange Goddess frae my hert’s-hert torn!...Or dost thou mak’ a thistle o’ me, wumman? But for theeI were as happy as the munelicht, withoot care,But thocht o’ thee—o’ thy contempt and ire—Turns hauf the warld into the youky thistle there,Feedin’ on the munelicht and transformin’ itTo this wanrestfu’ growth that winna let me be.The munelicht is the freedom that I’d ha’eBut for this cursèd Conscience thou hast set in me.It is morality, the knowledge o’ Guid and Ill,Fear, shame, pity, like a will and wilyart growth,That kills a’ else wi’in its reach and cravesNae less at last than a’ the warld to gi’e it scouth.The need to wark, the need to think, the need to be,And a’ thing that twists Life into a certain shapeAnd interferes wi’ perfect liberty—These feed this Frankenstein that nae man can escape.For ilka thing a man can be or think or daeAye leaves a million mair unbeen, unthocht, undune,Till his puir warped performance is,To a’ that micht ha’ been, a thistle to the mune.It is Mortality itsel’—the mortal coil,Mockin’ Perfection, Man afore the Throne o’ God.He yet has bigged himsel’, Man torn in twaAnd glorious in the lift and grisly on the sod!...There’s nocht sae sober as a man blin’ drunk.I maun ha’e got an unco bellyfu’To jaw like this—and yet what I am sayin’Is a’ the apter, aiblins, to be true.This munelicht’s fell like whisky noo I see’t.—Am I a thingum mebbe that is keptPreserved in spirits in a muckle bottleLang centuries efter sin’ wi’ Jean I slept?—Mounted on a hillside, wi’ the thistlesAnd bracken for verisimilitude,Like a stuffed bird on metal like a brainch,Or a seal on a stump o’ rock-like wood?Or am I juist a figure in a sceneO’ Scottish life A.D. one-nine-two-five?The haill thing kelters like a theatre claithTill I micht fancy that I was alive!I dinna ken and nae man ever can.I micht be in my ain bed efter a’.The haill damned thing’s a dream for ocht we ken,—The Warld and Life and Daith, Heaven, Hell ana’.We maun juist tak’ things as we find them then,And mak’ a kirk or mill o’ them as we can,—And yet I feel this muckle thistle’s staun’in’Atween me and the mune as pairt o’ a Plan.It isna there—nor me—by accident.We’re brocht thegither for a certain reason,Ev’n gin it’s naething mair than juist to gi’eMy jaded soul a necessaryfrisson.I never saw afore a thistle quiteSae intimately, or at sic an ’oor.There’s something in the fickle licht that gi’esA different life to’t and an unco poo’er.[3]“Rootit on gressless peaks, whaur its erectAnd jaggy leafs, austerely cauld and dumb,Haud the slow scaly serpent in respect,The Gothic thistle, whaur the insect’s humSoon’s fer aff, lifts abune the rock it scornsIts rigid virtue for the Heavens to see.The too’ering boulders gaird it. And the beeMak’s honey frae the roses on its thorns.”But that’s a Belgian refugee, of coorse.ThisFreudian complex has somehoo slunkenFrae Scotland’s soul—the Scots aboulia—Whilst a’ itsterra nulliusisbetrunken.And a’ the country roon’ aboot it nooLies clapt and shrunken syne like somebody whaHas lang o’ seven devils been possessed;Then when he turns a corner tines them a’,Or like a body that has tint its soul.Perched like a monkey on its heedless kist,Or like a sea that peacefu’ fa’s againWhen frae its deeps an octopus is fished.I canna feel it has to dae wi’ meMair than a composite diagram o’Cross-sections o’ my forbears’ organs—And mine—’ud bring a kind o’ freen’ly glow.And yet like bindweed through my clay it’s run,And a’ my folks’—it’s queer to see’t unroll.My ain soul looks me in the face, as ’twere,And mair than my ain soul—my nation’s soul!And sall a Belgian pit it into wordsAnd sing a sang to’t syne, and no’ a Scot?Oors is a wilder thistle, and RamaekersCanna bear aff the gree—avaunt the thocht!To meddle wi’ the thistle and to pluckThe figs frae’t ismymetier, I think.Awak’, my muse, and gin you’re in puir fettle,We aye can blame it on th’ inferior drink.T. S. Eliot—it’s a Scottish name—Afore he wrote ‘The Waste Land’ s’ud ha’e comeTo Scotland here. He wad ha’e writtenA better poem syne—like this, by gum!Type o’ the wissenschaftsfeindlichkeit,Begriffsmüdigkeit that has gar’tMen try Morphologies der Weltgeschichte,And mad Expressionismus syne in Art.[4]A shameless thing, for ilka vileness able,It is deid grey as dust, the dust o’ a man.I perish o’ a nearness I canna win awa’ frae,Its deidly coils aboot my buik are thrawn.A shaggy poulp, embracin’ me and stingin’,And as a serpent cauld agen’ my hert.Its scales are poisoned shafts that jag me to the quick—And waur than them’s my scunner’s fearfu’ smert!O that its prickles were a knife indeed,But it is thowless, flabby, dowf, and numb.Sae sluggishly it drains my benmaist lifeA dozent dragon, dreidfu’, deef, and dumb.In mum obscurity it twines its obstinate ringsAnd hings caressin’ly, its purpose whole;And this deid thing, whale-white obscenity,This horror that I writhe in—is my soul!Is it the munelicht or a leprosyThat spreids aboot me; and a thistleOr my ain skeleton through wha’s bare banesA fiendish wund’s begood to whistle?The devil’s lauchter has ahwlllike this.My face has flown open like a lid—And gibberin’ on the hillside thereIs a’ humanity sae lang has hid!...My harns are seaweed—when the tide is inThey swall like blethers and in comfort float,But when the tide is oot they lie like gealedAnd runkled auld bluid-vessels in a knot!The munelicht ebbs and flows and wi’t my thocht,Noo’ movin’ mellow and noo lourd and rough.I ken what I am like in Life and Daith,But Life and Daith for nae man are enough....And O! to think that there are members o’St Andrew’s Societies sleepin’ soon’,Wha to the papers wrote afore they beddedOn regimental buttons or buckled shoon,Or use o’ England whaur the U.K.’s meent,Or this or that anent the Blue Saltire,Recruitin’, pedigrees, and Gude kens what,Filled wi’ a proper patriotic fire!Wad I were them—they’ve chosen a better pairt,The couthie craturs, than the ane I’ve ta’en,Tyauvin’ wi’ this root-hewn Scottis soul;A fer, fer better pairt—except for men.Nae doot they’re sober, as a Scot ne’er was,Each tethered to a punctual-snorin’ missus,Whilst I, puir fule, owre continents unkentAnd wine-dark oceans waunder like Ulysses....[5]The Mune sits on my bed the nicht unsocht,And mak’s my soul obedient to her will;And in the dumb-deid, still as dreams are still,Her pupils narrow to bricht threids that thrillAboot the sensuous windin’s o’ her thocht.But ilka windin’ has its coonter-pairt—The opposite ’thoot which it couldna be—In some wild kink or queer perversityO’ this great thistle, green wi’ jealousy,That breenges ’twixt the munelicht and my hert....Plant, what are you then? Your leafsMind me o’ the pipes’ lood drone—And a’ your purple topsAre the pirly-wirly notesThat gang staggerin’ owre them as they groan.Or your leafs are alligatorsThat ha’e gobbled owre a haillCompany o’ Heilant sodgers,And left naethin’ but the tooriesO’ their Balmoral bonnets to tell the tale.Or a muckle bellows blawin’Wi’ the sperks a’ whizzin’ oot;Or green tides sweeshin’’Neth heich-skeich stars,Or centuries fleein’ doun a water-chute.Grinnin’ gargoyle by a saint,Mephistopheles in Heaven,Skeleton at a tea-meetin’,Missin’ link—or creakin’Hinge atween the deid and livin’....(I kent a Terrier in a sham fecht aince,Wha louped a dyke and landed on a thistle.He’d naething on ava aneth his kilt.Schönberg has nae notation for his whistle.)...(Gin you’re surprised a village drunkForeign references s’ud fool in,You ha’ena the respect you s’udFor oor guid Scottish schoolin’.For we’ve the maist unlikely folkAye braggin’ o’ oor lear,And, tho’ I’m drunk, for Scotland’s sakeI tak’ my barrowsteel here!Yet Europe’s faur eneuch for me,Puir fule, when bairns ken mairO’ th’ ither warld than I o’ this—But that’s no’ here nor there!)...Guid sakes, I’m in a dreidfu’ state.I’ll ha’e nae inklin’ suneGin I’m the drinker or the drink,The thistle or the mune.I’m geylies feart I couldna tellGin I su’d lay me doonThe difference betwixt the warldAnd my ain heid gaen’ roon’!...Drums in the Walligate, pipes in the air,Come and hear the cryin’ o’ the Fair.A’ as it used to be, when I was a loonOn Common-Ridin’ Day in the Muckle Toon.The bearer twirls the Bannock-and-Saut-Herrin’,The Croon o’ Roses through the lift is farin’,The aucht-fit thistle wallops on hie;In heather besoms a’ the hills gang by.But noo it’s a’ the fish o’ the seaNailed on the roond o’ the Earth to me.Beauty and Love that are bobbin’ there;Syne the breengin’ growth that alane I bear;And Scotland followin’ on ahintFor threepenny bits spleet-new frae the mint.Drums in the Walligate, pipes in the air,The wallopin’ thistle is ill to bear.But I’ll dance the nicht wi’ the stars o’ HeavenIn the Mairket Place as shair’s I’m livin’.Easy to cairry roses or herrin’,And the lave may weel their threepenny bits earn.Devil the star! It’s Jean I’ll ha’eAgain as she was on her weddin’ day....Nerves in stounds o’ delight,Muscles in pride o’ power,Bluid as wi’ roses dightLife’s toppin’ pinnacles owre,The thistle yet’ll uniteMan and the Infinite!Swippert and swith wi’ virrIn the howes o’ man’s hertForever its muckle roots stirLike a Leviathan astert,Till’ts coils like a thistle’s leafsSweep space wi’ levin sheafs.Frae laichest deeps o’ the oceanIt rises in flight upon flight,And ’yont its uttermaist motionCan still set roses alight,As else unreachable heightFa’s under its triumphin’ sight.Here is the root that feedsThe shank wi’ the blindin’ wingsDwinin’ abuneheid to gleidsLike stars in their keethin’ rings,And blooms in sunrise and sunsetInowre Eternity’s yett.
I amna’ fou’ sae muckle as tired—deid dune.It’s gey and hard wark’ coupin’ gless for glessWi’ Cruivie and Gilsanquhar and the like,And I’m no’ juist as bauld as aince I wes.
I amna’ fou’ sae muckle as tired—deid dune.
It’s gey and hard wark’ coupin’ gless for gless
Wi’ Cruivie and Gilsanquhar and the like,
And I’m no’ juist as bauld as aince I wes.
The elbuck fankles in the coorse o’ time,The sheckle’s no’ sae souple, and the thrappleGrows deef and dour: nae langer up and dounGleg as a squirrel speils the Adam’s apple.
The elbuck fankles in the coorse o’ time,
The sheckle’s no’ sae souple, and the thrapple
Grows deef and dour: nae langer up and doun
Gleg as a squirrel speils the Adam’s apple.
Forbye, the stuffie’s no’ the real Mackay.The sun’s sel’ aince, as sune as ye began it,Riz in your vera saul: but what keeks inNoo is in truth the vilest “saxpenny planet.”
Forbye, the stuffie’s no’ the real Mackay.
The sun’s sel’ aince, as sune as ye began it,
Riz in your vera saul: but what keeks in
Noo is in truth the vilest “saxpenny planet.”
And as the worth’s gane doun the cost has risen.Yin canna thow the cockles o’ yin’s hertWi’oot ha’en’ cauld feet noo, jalousin’ whatThe wife’ll say (I dinna blame her fur’t).
And as the worth’s gane doun the cost has risen.
Yin canna thow the cockles o’ yin’s hert
Wi’oot ha’en’ cauld feet noo, jalousin’ what
The wife’ll say (I dinna blame her fur’t).
It’s robbin’ Peter to pey Paul at least....And a’ that’s Scotch aboot it is the name,Like a’ thing else ca’d Scottish nooadays—A’ destitute o’ speerit juist the same.
It’s robbin’ Peter to pey Paul at least....
And a’ that’s Scotch aboot it is the name,
Like a’ thing else ca’d Scottish nooadays
—A’ destitute o’ speerit juist the same.
(To prove my saul is Scots I maun beginWi’ what’s still deemed Scots and the folk expect,And spire up syne by visible degreesTo heichts whereo’ the fules ha’e never recked.
(To prove my saul is Scots I maun begin
Wi’ what’s still deemed Scots and the folk expect,
And spire up syne by visible degrees
To heichts whereo’ the fules ha’e never recked.
But aince I get them there I’ll whummle themAnd souse the craturs in the nether deeps,—For it’s nae choice, and ony man s’ud wishTo dree the goat’s weird tae as weel’s the sheep’s!)
But aince I get them there I’ll whummle them
And souse the craturs in the nether deeps,
—For it’s nae choice, and ony man s’ud wish
To dree the goat’s weird tae as weel’s the sheep’s!)
Heifetz in tartan, and Sir Harry Lauder!Whaur’s Isadora Duncan dancin’ noo?Is Mary Garden in Chicago stillAnd Duncan Grant in Paris—and me fou’?
Heifetz in tartan, and Sir Harry Lauder!
Whaur’s Isadora Duncan dancin’ noo?
Is Mary Garden in Chicago still
And Duncan Grant in Paris—and me fou’?
Sic transit gloria Scotia—a’ the floo’ersO’ the Forest are wede awa’. (A blin’ bird’s nestIs aiblins biggin’ in the thistle tho’?...And better blin’ if’ts brood is like the rest!)
Sic transit gloria Scotia—a’ the floo’ers
O’ the Forest are wede awa’. (A blin’ bird’s nest
Is aiblins biggin’ in the thistle tho’?...
And better blin’ if’ts brood is like the rest!)
You canna gang to a Burns supper evenWi’oot some wizened scrunt o’ a knock-kneeChinee turns roon to say, “Him Haggis—velly goot!”And ten to wan the piper is a Cockney.
You canna gang to a Burns supper even
Wi’oot some wizened scrunt o’ a knock-knee
Chinee turns roon to say, “Him Haggis—velly goot!”
And ten to wan the piper is a Cockney.
No’ wan in fifty kens a wurd Burns wroteBut misapplied is a’body’s property,And gin there was his like alive the dayThey’d be the last a kennin’ haund to gie—
No’ wan in fifty kens a wurd Burns wrote
But misapplied is a’body’s property,
And gin there was his like alive the day
They’d be the last a kennin’ haund to gie—
Croose London Scotties wi’ their braw shirt frontsAnd a’ their fancy freen’s, rejoicin’That similah gatherings in Timbuctoo,Bagdad—and Hell, nae doot—are voicin’
Croose London Scotties wi’ their braw shirt fronts
And a’ their fancy freen’s, rejoicin’
That similah gatherings in Timbuctoo,
Bagdad—and Hell, nae doot—are voicin’
Burns’ sentiments o’ universal love,In pidgin’ English or in wild-fowl Scots,And toastin’ ane wha’s nocht to them but anExcuse for faitherin’ Genius wi’theirthochts.
Burns’ sentiments o’ universal love,
In pidgin’ English or in wild-fowl Scots,
And toastin’ ane wha’s nocht to them but an
Excuse for faitherin’ Genius wi’theirthochts.
A’they’veto say was aften said aforeA lad was born in Kyle to blaw aboot.What unco fate mak’shimthe dumpin’-grun’For a’ the sloppy rubbish they jaw oot?
A’they’veto say was aften said afore
A lad was born in Kyle to blaw aboot.
What unco fate mak’shimthe dumpin’-grun’
For a’ the sloppy rubbish they jaw oot?
Mair nonsense has been uttered in his nameThan in ony’s barrin’ liberty and Christ.If this keeps spreedin’ as the drink declines,Syne turns to tea, wae’s me for theZeitgeist!
Mair nonsense has been uttered in his name
Than in ony’s barrin’ liberty and Christ.
If this keeps spreedin’ as the drink declines,
Syne turns to tea, wae’s me for theZeitgeist!
Rabbie, wad’st thou wert here—the warld hath need,And Scotland mair sae, o’ the likes o’ thee!The whisky that aince moved your lyre’s becomeA laxative for a’ loquacity.
Rabbie, wad’st thou wert here—the warld hath need,
And Scotland mair sae, o’ the likes o’ thee!
The whisky that aince moved your lyre’s become
A laxative for a’ loquacity.
O gin they’d stegh their guts and haud their wheeshtI’d thole it, for “a man’s a man,” I ken,But though the feck ha’e plenty o’ the “a’ that,”They’re nocht but zoologically men.
O gin they’d stegh their guts and haud their wheesht
I’d thole it, for “a man’s a man,” I ken,
But though the feck ha’e plenty o’ the “a’ that,”
They’re nocht but zoologically men.
I’m haverin’, Rabbie, but ye understaun’It gets my dander up to see your starA bauble in Babel, banged like a saxpence’Twixt Burbank’s Baedeker and Bleistein’s cigar.
I’m haverin’, Rabbie, but ye understaun’
It gets my dander up to see your star
A bauble in Babel, banged like a saxpence
’Twixt Burbank’s Baedeker and Bleistein’s cigar.
There’s nane sae ignorant but think they canExpatiate onyou, if on nae ither.The sumphs ha’e ta’en you at your wird, and, fegs!The foziest o’ them claims to be a—Brither!
There’s nane sae ignorant but think they can
Expatiate onyou, if on nae ither.
The sumphs ha’e ta’en you at your wird, and, fegs!
The foziest o’ them claims to be a—Brither!
Syne “Here’s the cheenge”—the star o’ Rabbie Burns.Sma’ cheenge, “Twinkle, Twinkle.” The memory slipsAs G. K. Chesterton heaves up to gi’e“The Immortal Memory” in a huge eclipse,
Syne “Here’s the cheenge”—the star o’ Rabbie Burns.
Sma’ cheenge, “Twinkle, Twinkle.” The memory slips
As G. K. Chesterton heaves up to gi’e
“The Immortal Memory” in a huge eclipse,
Or somebody else as famous if less fat.You left the like in Embro’ in a scunnerTo booze wi’ thieveless cronies sic as me.I’se warrant you’d shy clear o’ a’ the hunner
Or somebody else as famous if less fat.
You left the like in Embro’ in a scunner
To booze wi’ thieveless cronies sic as me.
I’se warrant you’d shy clear o’ a’ the hunner
Odd Burns’ Clubs tae, or ninety-nine o’ them,And haud your birthday in a different kipWhaur your name isna’ ta’en in vain—as ChristGied a’ Jerusalem’s Pharisees the slip,
Odd Burns’ Clubs tae, or ninety-nine o’ them,
And haud your birthday in a different kip
Whaur your name isna’ ta’en in vain—as Christ
Gied a’ Jerusalem’s Pharisees the slip,
—Christ wha’d ha’e been Chief Rabbi gin he’d lik’t!—Wi’ publicans and sinners to forgether,But, losh! the publicans noo are Pharisees,And I’m no’ shair o’ maist the sinners either.
—Christ wha’d ha’e been Chief Rabbi gin he’d lik’t!—
Wi’ publicans and sinners to forgether,
But, losh! the publicans noo are Pharisees,
And I’m no’ shair o’ maist the sinners either.
But that’s aside the point! I’ve got fair waun’ert.It’s no’ that I’m sae fou’ as juist deid dune,And dinna ken as muckle’s whaur I amOr hoo I’ve come to sprawl here ’neth the mune
But that’s aside the point! I’ve got fair waun’ert.
It’s no’ that I’m sae fou’ as juist deid dune,
And dinna ken as muckle’s whaur I am
Or hoo I’ve come to sprawl here ’neth the mune
That’s it! It isna me that’s fou’ at a’,But the fu’ mune, the doited jade, that’s ledMe fer agley, or ’mogrified the warld.—For a’ I ken I’m safe in my ain bed.
That’s it! It isna me that’s fou’ at a’,
But the fu’ mune, the doited jade, that’s led
Me fer agley, or ’mogrified the warld.
—For a’ I ken I’m safe in my ain bed.
Jean! Jean!Ginshe’s no’ here it’s no’oorbed,Or else I’m dreamin’ deep and canna wauken,But it’s a fell queer dream if this is no’A real hillside—and thae things thistles and bracken!
Jean! Jean!Ginshe’s no’ here it’s no’oorbed,
Or else I’m dreamin’ deep and canna wauken,
But it’s a fell queer dream if this is no’
A real hillside—and thae things thistles and bracken!
It’s hard wark haud’n by a thocht worth ha’en’And harder speakin’t, and no’ for ilka man;Maist Thocht’s like whisky—a thoosan’ under proof,And a sair price is pitten on’t even than.
It’s hard wark haud’n by a thocht worth ha’en’
And harder speakin’t, and no’ for ilka man;
Maist Thocht’s like whisky—a thoosan’ under proof,
And a sair price is pitten on’t even than.
As Kirks wi’ Christianity ha’e dune,Burns’ Clubs wi’ Burns—wi’ a’thing it’s the same,The core o’ ocht is only for the few,Scorned by the mony, thrang wi’ts empty name.
As Kirks wi’ Christianity ha’e dune,
Burns’ Clubs wi’ Burns—wi’ a’thing it’s the same,
The core o’ ocht is only for the few,
Scorned by the mony, thrang wi’ts empty name.
And a’ the names in History mean nochtTo maist folk but “ideas o’ their ain,”The vera opposite o’ onythingThe Deid ’ud awn gin they cam’ back again.
And a’ the names in History mean nocht
To maist folk but “ideas o’ their ain,”
The vera opposite o’ onything
The Deid ’ud awn gin they cam’ back again.
A greater Christ, a greater Burns, may come.The maist they’ll dae is to gi’e bigger pegsTo folly and conceit to hank their rubbish on.They’ll cheenge folks’ talk but no their natures, fegs!
A greater Christ, a greater Burns, may come.
The maist they’ll dae is to gi’e bigger pegs
To folly and conceit to hank their rubbish on.
They’ll cheenge folks’ talk but no their natures, fegs!
I maun feed frae the common trough ana’Whaur a’ the lees o’ hope are jumbled up;While centuries like pigs are slorpin’ owre’tSall my wee ’oor be cryin’: “Let pass this cup?”
I maun feed frae the common trough ana’
Whaur a’ the lees o’ hope are jumbled up;
While centuries like pigs are slorpin’ owre’t
Sall my wee ’oor be cryin’: “Let pass this cup?”
In wi’ your gruntle then, puir wheengin’ saul,Lap up the ugsome aidle wi’ the lave,What gin it’s your ain vomit that you swillAnd frae Life’s gantin’ and unfaddomed grave?
In wi’ your gruntle then, puir wheengin’ saul,
Lap up the ugsome aidle wi’ the lave,
What gin it’s your ain vomit that you swill
And frae Life’s gantin’ and unfaddomed grave?
I doot I’m geylies mixed, like Life itsel’,But I was never ane that thocht to pitAn ocean in a mutchkin. As the haill’sMair than the pairt sae I than reason yet.
I doot I’m geylies mixed, like Life itsel’,
But I was never ane that thocht to pit
An ocean in a mutchkin. As the haill’s
Mair than the pairt sae I than reason yet.
I dinna haud the warld’s end in my heidAs maist folk think they dae; nor filter truthIn fishy gills through which its tides may poorFor onyanimalculæforsooth.
I dinna haud the warld’s end in my heid
As maist folk think they dae; nor filter truth
In fishy gills through which its tides may poor
For onyanimalculæforsooth.
I lauch to see my crazy little brain—And ither folks’—tak’n itsel’ seriously,And in a sudden lowe o’ fun my saulBlinks dozent as the owl I ken’t to be.
I lauch to see my crazy little brain
—And ither folks’—tak’n itsel’ seriously,
And in a sudden lowe o’ fun my saul
Blinks dozent as the owl I ken’t to be.
I’ll ha’e nae hauf-way hoose, but aye be whaurExtremes meet—it’s the only way I kenTo dodge the curst conceit o’ bein’ richtThat damns the vast majority o’ men.
I’ll ha’e nae hauf-way hoose, but aye be whaur
Extremes meet—it’s the only way I ken
To dodge the curst conceit o’ bein’ richt
That damns the vast majority o’ men.
I’ll bury nae heid like an ostrich’s,Nor yet believe my een and naething else.My senses may advise me, but I’ll beMysel’ nae maitter what they tell’s....
I’ll bury nae heid like an ostrich’s,
Nor yet believe my een and naething else.
My senses may advise me, but I’ll be
Mysel’ nae maitter what they tell’s....
I ha’e nae doot some foreign philosopherHas wrocht a system oot to justifyA’ this: but I’m a Scot wha blin’ly followsAuld Scottish instincts, and I winna try.
I ha’e nae doot some foreign philosopher
Has wrocht a system oot to justify
A’ this: but I’m a Scot wha blin’ly follows
Auld Scottish instincts, and I winna try.
For I’ve nae faith in ocht I can explain,And stert whaur the philosophers leave aff,Content to glimpse its loops I dinna ettleTo land the sea serpent’s sel’ wi’ ony gaff.
For I’ve nae faith in ocht I can explain,
And stert whaur the philosophers leave aff,
Content to glimpse its loops I dinna ettle
To land the sea serpent’s sel’ wi’ ony gaff.
Like staundin’ water in a pocket o’Impervious clay I pray I’ll never be,Cut aff and self-sufficient, but let reengeHeichts o’ the lift and benmaist deeps o’ sea.
Like staundin’ water in a pocket o’
Impervious clay I pray I’ll never be,
Cut aff and self-sufficient, but let reenge
Heichts o’ the lift and benmaist deeps o’ sea.
Water! Water! There was owre muckle o’tIn yonder whisky, sae I’m in deep water(And gin I could wun hame I’d be in het,For even Jean maun natter, natter, natter)....
Water! Water! There was owre muckle o’t
In yonder whisky, sae I’m in deep water
(And gin I could wun hame I’d be in het,
For even Jean maun natter, natter, natter)....
And in the toon that I belang tae—What tho’ts Montrose or Nazareth?—Helplessly the folk continueTo lead their livin’ death!...
And in the toon that I belang tae
—What tho’ts Montrose or Nazareth?—
Helplessly the folk continue
To lead their livin’ death!...
[1]At darknin’ hings abune the howffA weet and wild and eisenin’ air.Spring’s spirit wi’ its waesome soughRules owre the drucken stramash there.
[1]At darknin’ hings abune the howff
A weet and wild and eisenin’ air.
Spring’s spirit wi’ its waesome sough
Rules owre the drucken stramash there.
And heich abune the vennel’s pokiness,Whaur a’ the white-weshed cottons lie;The Inn’s sign blinters in the mochiness,And lood and shrill the bairnies cry.
And heich abune the vennel’s pokiness,
Whaur a’ the white-weshed cottons lie;
The Inn’s sign blinters in the mochiness,
And lood and shrill the bairnies cry.
The hauflins ’yont the burgh boondsGang ilka nicht, and a’ the same,Their bonnets cocked; their bluid that stoundsIs playin’ at a fine auld game.
The hauflins ’yont the burgh boonds
Gang ilka nicht, and a’ the same,
Their bonnets cocked; their bluid that stounds
Is playin’ at a fine auld game.
And on the lochan there, hauf-hertedWee screams and creakin’ oar-locks soon’,And in the lift, heich, hauf-averted,The mune looks owre the yirdly roon’.
And on the lochan there, hauf-herted
Wee screams and creakin’ oar-locks soon’,
And in the lift, heich, hauf-averted,
The mune looks owre the yirdly roon’.
And ilka evenin’, derf and serious(Jean ettles nocht o’ this, puir lass),In liquor, raw yet still mysterious,A’e freend’s aye mirrored in my glass.
And ilka evenin’, derf and serious
(Jean ettles nocht o’ this, puir lass),
In liquor, raw yet still mysterious,
A’e freend’s aye mirrored in my glass.
Ahint the sheenin’ coonter gruffThrang barmen ding the tumblers doun“In vino veritas” cry roughAnd reid-een’d fules that in it droon.
Ahint the sheenin’ coonter gruff
Thrang barmen ding the tumblers doun
“In vino veritas” cry rough
And reid-een’d fules that in it droon.
But ilka evenin’ fey and fremt(Is it a dream nae wauk’nin’ proves?)As to a trystin’-place undreamt,A silken leddy darkly moves.
But ilka evenin’ fey and fremt
(Is it a dream nae wauk’nin’ proves?)
As to a trystin’-place undreamt,
A silken leddy darkly moves.
Slow gangs she by the drunken anes,And lanely by the winnock sits;Frae’r robes, atour the sunken anes,A rooky dwamin’ perfume flits.
Slow gangs she by the drunken anes,
And lanely by the winnock sits;
Frae’r robes, atour the sunken anes,
A rooky dwamin’ perfume flits.
Her gleamin’ silks, the taperin’O’ her ringed fingers, and her feathersMove dimly like a dream wi’in,While endless faith aboot them gethers.
Her gleamin’ silks, the taperin’
O’ her ringed fingers, and her feathers
Move dimly like a dream wi’in,
While endless faith aboot them gethers.
I seek, in this captivity,To pierce the veils that darklin’ fa’—See white clints slidin’ to the sea,And hear the horns o’ Elfland blaw.
I seek, in this captivity,
To pierce the veils that darklin’ fa’
—See white clints slidin’ to the sea,
And hear the horns o’ Elfland blaw.
I ha’e dark secrets’ turns and twists,A sun is gi’en to me to haud,The whisky in my bluid insists,And spiers my benmaist history, lad.
I ha’e dark secrets’ turns and twists,
A sun is gi’en to me to haud,
The whisky in my bluid insists,
And spiers my benmaist history, lad.
And owre my brain the flitterin’O’ the dim feathers gangs aince mair,And, faddomless, the dark blue glitterin’O’ twa een in the ocean there.
And owre my brain the flitterin’
O’ the dim feathers gangs aince mair,
And, faddomless, the dark blue glitterin’
O’ twa een in the ocean there.
My soul stores up this wealth unspent,The key is safe and nane’s but mine.You’re richt, auld drunk impenitent,I ken it tae—the truth’s in wine!
My soul stores up this wealth unspent,
The key is safe and nane’s but mine.
You’re richt, auld drunk impenitent,
I ken it tae—the truth’s in wine!
The munelicht’s like a lookin’-glass,The thistle’s like mysel’,But whaur ye’ve gane, my bonnie lass.Is mair than I can tell.
The munelicht’s like a lookin’-glass,
The thistle’s like mysel’,
But whaur ye’ve gane, my bonnie lass.
Is mair than I can tell.
Were you a vision o’ mysel’,Transmuted by the mellow liquor?Neist time I glisk you in a glass,I’se warrant I’ll mak’ siccar.
Were you a vision o’ mysel’,
Transmuted by the mellow liquor?
Neist time I glisk you in a glass,
I’se warrant I’ll mak’ siccar.
A man’s a clean contrairy sichtTurned this way in-ootside,And, fegs, I feel like Dr JekyllTak’n guid tent o’ Mr Hyde....
A man’s a clean contrairy sicht
Turned this way in-ootside,
And, fegs, I feel like Dr Jekyll
Tak’n guid tent o’ Mr Hyde....
Gurly thistle—hic—you cannaDaunton me wi’ your shaggy mien,I’m sair—hic—needin’ a shave,That’s plainly to be seen.
Gurly thistle—hic—you canna
Daunton me wi’ your shaggy mien,
I’m sair—hic—needin’ a shave,
That’s plainly to be seen.
But what aboot it—hic—aboot it?Mony a man’s been that afore.It’s no’ a fact that in his lugsA wund like this need roar!...
But what aboot it—hic—aboot it?
Mony a man’s been that afore.
It’s no’ a fact that in his lugs
A wund like this need roar!...
[2]I hae forekent ye! O I hae forekent.The years forecast your face afore they went.A licht I canna thole is in the lift.I bide in silence your slow-comin’ pace.The ends o’ space are bricht: at last—oh swift!While terror clings to me—an unkent face!
[2]I hae forekent ye! O I hae forekent.
The years forecast your face afore they went.
A licht I canna thole is in the lift.
I bide in silence your slow-comin’ pace.
The ends o’ space are bricht: at last—oh swift!
While terror clings to me—an unkent face!
Ill-faith stirs in me as she comes at last,The features lang forekent ... are unforecast.O it gangs hard wi’me, I am forspent.Deid dreams ha’e beaten me and a face unkentAnd generations that I thocht unbornHail the strange Goddess frae my hert’s-hert torn!...
Ill-faith stirs in me as she comes at last,
The features lang forekent ... are unforecast.
O it gangs hard wi’me, I am forspent.
Deid dreams ha’e beaten me and a face unkent
And generations that I thocht unborn
Hail the strange Goddess frae my hert’s-hert torn!...
Or dost thou mak’ a thistle o’ me, wumman? But for theeI were as happy as the munelicht, withoot care,But thocht o’ thee—o’ thy contempt and ire—Turns hauf the warld into the youky thistle there,
Or dost thou mak’ a thistle o’ me, wumman? But for thee
I were as happy as the munelicht, withoot care,
But thocht o’ thee—o’ thy contempt and ire—
Turns hauf the warld into the youky thistle there,
Feedin’ on the munelicht and transformin’ itTo this wanrestfu’ growth that winna let me be.The munelicht is the freedom that I’d ha’eBut for this cursèd Conscience thou hast set in me.
Feedin’ on the munelicht and transformin’ it
To this wanrestfu’ growth that winna let me be.
The munelicht is the freedom that I’d ha’e
But for this cursèd Conscience thou hast set in me.
It is morality, the knowledge o’ Guid and Ill,Fear, shame, pity, like a will and wilyart growth,That kills a’ else wi’in its reach and cravesNae less at last than a’ the warld to gi’e it scouth.
It is morality, the knowledge o’ Guid and Ill,
Fear, shame, pity, like a will and wilyart growth,
That kills a’ else wi’in its reach and craves
Nae less at last than a’ the warld to gi’e it scouth.
The need to wark, the need to think, the need to be,And a’ thing that twists Life into a certain shapeAnd interferes wi’ perfect liberty—These feed this Frankenstein that nae man can escape.
The need to wark, the need to think, the need to be,
And a’ thing that twists Life into a certain shape
And interferes wi’ perfect liberty—
These feed this Frankenstein that nae man can escape.
For ilka thing a man can be or think or daeAye leaves a million mair unbeen, unthocht, undune,Till his puir warped performance is,To a’ that micht ha’ been, a thistle to the mune.
For ilka thing a man can be or think or dae
Aye leaves a million mair unbeen, unthocht, undune,
Till his puir warped performance is,
To a’ that micht ha’ been, a thistle to the mune.
It is Mortality itsel’—the mortal coil,Mockin’ Perfection, Man afore the Throne o’ God.He yet has bigged himsel’, Man torn in twaAnd glorious in the lift and grisly on the sod!...
It is Mortality itsel’—the mortal coil,
Mockin’ Perfection, Man afore the Throne o’ God.
He yet has bigged himsel’, Man torn in twa
And glorious in the lift and grisly on the sod!...
There’s nocht sae sober as a man blin’ drunk.I maun ha’e got an unco bellyfu’To jaw like this—and yet what I am sayin’Is a’ the apter, aiblins, to be true.
There’s nocht sae sober as a man blin’ drunk.
I maun ha’e got an unco bellyfu’
To jaw like this—and yet what I am sayin’
Is a’ the apter, aiblins, to be true.
This munelicht’s fell like whisky noo I see’t.—Am I a thingum mebbe that is keptPreserved in spirits in a muckle bottleLang centuries efter sin’ wi’ Jean I slept?
This munelicht’s fell like whisky noo I see’t.
—Am I a thingum mebbe that is kept
Preserved in spirits in a muckle bottle
Lang centuries efter sin’ wi’ Jean I slept?
—Mounted on a hillside, wi’ the thistlesAnd bracken for verisimilitude,Like a stuffed bird on metal like a brainch,Or a seal on a stump o’ rock-like wood?
—Mounted on a hillside, wi’ the thistles
And bracken for verisimilitude,
Like a stuffed bird on metal like a brainch,
Or a seal on a stump o’ rock-like wood?
Or am I juist a figure in a sceneO’ Scottish life A.D. one-nine-two-five?The haill thing kelters like a theatre claithTill I micht fancy that I was alive!
Or am I juist a figure in a scene
O’ Scottish life A.D. one-nine-two-five?
The haill thing kelters like a theatre claith
Till I micht fancy that I was alive!
I dinna ken and nae man ever can.I micht be in my ain bed efter a’.The haill damned thing’s a dream for ocht we ken,—The Warld and Life and Daith, Heaven, Hell ana’.
I dinna ken and nae man ever can.
I micht be in my ain bed efter a’.
The haill damned thing’s a dream for ocht we ken,
—The Warld and Life and Daith, Heaven, Hell ana’.
We maun juist tak’ things as we find them then,And mak’ a kirk or mill o’ them as we can,—And yet I feel this muckle thistle’s staun’in’Atween me and the mune as pairt o’ a Plan.
We maun juist tak’ things as we find them then,
And mak’ a kirk or mill o’ them as we can,
—And yet I feel this muckle thistle’s staun’in’
Atween me and the mune as pairt o’ a Plan.
It isna there—nor me—by accident.We’re brocht thegither for a certain reason,Ev’n gin it’s naething mair than juist to gi’eMy jaded soul a necessaryfrisson.
It isna there—nor me—by accident.
We’re brocht thegither for a certain reason,
Ev’n gin it’s naething mair than juist to gi’e
My jaded soul a necessaryfrisson.
I never saw afore a thistle quiteSae intimately, or at sic an ’oor.There’s something in the fickle licht that gi’esA different life to’t and an unco poo’er.
I never saw afore a thistle quite
Sae intimately, or at sic an ’oor.
There’s something in the fickle licht that gi’es
A different life to’t and an unco poo’er.
[3]“Rootit on gressless peaks, whaur its erectAnd jaggy leafs, austerely cauld and dumb,Haud the slow scaly serpent in respect,The Gothic thistle, whaur the insect’s humSoon’s fer aff, lifts abune the rock it scornsIts rigid virtue for the Heavens to see.The too’ering boulders gaird it. And the beeMak’s honey frae the roses on its thorns.”
[3]“Rootit on gressless peaks, whaur its erect
And jaggy leafs, austerely cauld and dumb,
Haud the slow scaly serpent in respect,
The Gothic thistle, whaur the insect’s hum
Soon’s fer aff, lifts abune the rock it scorns
Its rigid virtue for the Heavens to see.
The too’ering boulders gaird it. And the bee
Mak’s honey frae the roses on its thorns.”
But that’s a Belgian refugee, of coorse.ThisFreudian complex has somehoo slunkenFrae Scotland’s soul—the Scots aboulia—Whilst a’ itsterra nulliusisbetrunken.
But that’s a Belgian refugee, of coorse.
ThisFreudian complex has somehoo slunken
Frae Scotland’s soul—the Scots aboulia—
Whilst a’ itsterra nulliusisbetrunken.
And a’ the country roon’ aboot it nooLies clapt and shrunken syne like somebody whaHas lang o’ seven devils been possessed;Then when he turns a corner tines them a’,
And a’ the country roon’ aboot it noo
Lies clapt and shrunken syne like somebody wha
Has lang o’ seven devils been possessed;
Then when he turns a corner tines them a’,
Or like a body that has tint its soul.Perched like a monkey on its heedless kist,Or like a sea that peacefu’ fa’s againWhen frae its deeps an octopus is fished.
Or like a body that has tint its soul.
Perched like a monkey on its heedless kist,
Or like a sea that peacefu’ fa’s again
When frae its deeps an octopus is fished.
I canna feel it has to dae wi’ meMair than a composite diagram o’Cross-sections o’ my forbears’ organs—And mine—’ud bring a kind o’ freen’ly glow.
I canna feel it has to dae wi’ me
Mair than a composite diagram o’
Cross-sections o’ my forbears’ organs
—And mine—’ud bring a kind o’ freen’ly glow.
And yet like bindweed through my clay it’s run,And a’ my folks’—it’s queer to see’t unroll.My ain soul looks me in the face, as ’twere,And mair than my ain soul—my nation’s soul!
And yet like bindweed through my clay it’s run,
And a’ my folks’—it’s queer to see’t unroll.
My ain soul looks me in the face, as ’twere,
And mair than my ain soul—my nation’s soul!
And sall a Belgian pit it into wordsAnd sing a sang to’t syne, and no’ a Scot?Oors is a wilder thistle, and RamaekersCanna bear aff the gree—avaunt the thocht!
And sall a Belgian pit it into words
And sing a sang to’t syne, and no’ a Scot?
Oors is a wilder thistle, and Ramaekers
Canna bear aff the gree—avaunt the thocht!
To meddle wi’ the thistle and to pluckThe figs frae’t ismymetier, I think.Awak’, my muse, and gin you’re in puir fettle,We aye can blame it on th’ inferior drink.
To meddle wi’ the thistle and to pluck
The figs frae’t ismymetier, I think.
Awak’, my muse, and gin you’re in puir fettle,
We aye can blame it on th’ inferior drink.
T. S. Eliot—it’s a Scottish name—Afore he wrote ‘The Waste Land’ s’ud ha’e comeTo Scotland here. He wad ha’e writtenA better poem syne—like this, by gum!
T. S. Eliot—it’s a Scottish name—
Afore he wrote ‘The Waste Land’ s’ud ha’e come
To Scotland here. He wad ha’e written
A better poem syne—like this, by gum!
Type o’ the wissenschaftsfeindlichkeit,Begriffsmüdigkeit that has gar’tMen try Morphologies der Weltgeschichte,And mad Expressionismus syne in Art.
Type o’ the wissenschaftsfeindlichkeit,
Begriffsmüdigkeit that has gar’t
Men try Morphologies der Weltgeschichte,
And mad Expressionismus syne in Art.
[4]A shameless thing, for ilka vileness able,It is deid grey as dust, the dust o’ a man.I perish o’ a nearness I canna win awa’ frae,Its deidly coils aboot my buik are thrawn.
[4]A shameless thing, for ilka vileness able,
It is deid grey as dust, the dust o’ a man.
I perish o’ a nearness I canna win awa’ frae,
Its deidly coils aboot my buik are thrawn.
A shaggy poulp, embracin’ me and stingin’,And as a serpent cauld agen’ my hert.Its scales are poisoned shafts that jag me to the quick—And waur than them’s my scunner’s fearfu’ smert!
A shaggy poulp, embracin’ me and stingin’,
And as a serpent cauld agen’ my hert.
Its scales are poisoned shafts that jag me to the quick
—And waur than them’s my scunner’s fearfu’ smert!
O that its prickles were a knife indeed,But it is thowless, flabby, dowf, and numb.Sae sluggishly it drains my benmaist lifeA dozent dragon, dreidfu’, deef, and dumb.
O that its prickles were a knife indeed,
But it is thowless, flabby, dowf, and numb.
Sae sluggishly it drains my benmaist life
A dozent dragon, dreidfu’, deef, and dumb.
In mum obscurity it twines its obstinate ringsAnd hings caressin’ly, its purpose whole;And this deid thing, whale-white obscenity,This horror that I writhe in—is my soul!
In mum obscurity it twines its obstinate rings
And hings caressin’ly, its purpose whole;
And this deid thing, whale-white obscenity,
This horror that I writhe in—is my soul!
Is it the munelicht or a leprosyThat spreids aboot me; and a thistleOr my ain skeleton through wha’s bare banesA fiendish wund’s begood to whistle?
Is it the munelicht or a leprosy
That spreids aboot me; and a thistle
Or my ain skeleton through wha’s bare banes
A fiendish wund’s begood to whistle?
The devil’s lauchter has ahwlllike this.My face has flown open like a lid—And gibberin’ on the hillside thereIs a’ humanity sae lang has hid!...
The devil’s lauchter has ahwlllike this.
My face has flown open like a lid
—And gibberin’ on the hillside there
Is a’ humanity sae lang has hid!...
My harns are seaweed—when the tide is inThey swall like blethers and in comfort float,But when the tide is oot they lie like gealedAnd runkled auld bluid-vessels in a knot!
My harns are seaweed—when the tide is in
They swall like blethers and in comfort float,
But when the tide is oot they lie like gealed
And runkled auld bluid-vessels in a knot!
The munelicht ebbs and flows and wi’t my thocht,Noo’ movin’ mellow and noo lourd and rough.I ken what I am like in Life and Daith,But Life and Daith for nae man are enough....
The munelicht ebbs and flows and wi’t my thocht,
Noo’ movin’ mellow and noo lourd and rough.
I ken what I am like in Life and Daith,
But Life and Daith for nae man are enough....
And O! to think that there are members o’St Andrew’s Societies sleepin’ soon’,Wha to the papers wrote afore they beddedOn regimental buttons or buckled shoon,
And O! to think that there are members o’
St Andrew’s Societies sleepin’ soon’,
Wha to the papers wrote afore they bedded
On regimental buttons or buckled shoon,
Or use o’ England whaur the U.K.’s meent,Or this or that anent the Blue Saltire,Recruitin’, pedigrees, and Gude kens what,Filled wi’ a proper patriotic fire!
Or use o’ England whaur the U.K.’s meent,
Or this or that anent the Blue Saltire,
Recruitin’, pedigrees, and Gude kens what,
Filled wi’ a proper patriotic fire!
Wad I were them—they’ve chosen a better pairt,The couthie craturs, than the ane I’ve ta’en,Tyauvin’ wi’ this root-hewn Scottis soul;A fer, fer better pairt—except for men.
Wad I were them—they’ve chosen a better pairt,
The couthie craturs, than the ane I’ve ta’en,
Tyauvin’ wi’ this root-hewn Scottis soul;
A fer, fer better pairt—except for men.
Nae doot they’re sober, as a Scot ne’er was,Each tethered to a punctual-snorin’ missus,Whilst I, puir fule, owre continents unkentAnd wine-dark oceans waunder like Ulysses....
Nae doot they’re sober, as a Scot ne’er was,
Each tethered to a punctual-snorin’ missus,
Whilst I, puir fule, owre continents unkent
And wine-dark oceans waunder like Ulysses....
[5]The Mune sits on my bed the nicht unsocht,And mak’s my soul obedient to her will;And in the dumb-deid, still as dreams are still,Her pupils narrow to bricht threids that thrillAboot the sensuous windin’s o’ her thocht.
[5]The Mune sits on my bed the nicht unsocht,
And mak’s my soul obedient to her will;
And in the dumb-deid, still as dreams are still,
Her pupils narrow to bricht threids that thrill
Aboot the sensuous windin’s o’ her thocht.
But ilka windin’ has its coonter-pairt—The opposite ’thoot which it couldna be—In some wild kink or queer perversityO’ this great thistle, green wi’ jealousy,That breenges ’twixt the munelicht and my hert....
But ilka windin’ has its coonter-pairt
—The opposite ’thoot which it couldna be—
In some wild kink or queer perversity
O’ this great thistle, green wi’ jealousy,
That breenges ’twixt the munelicht and my hert....
Plant, what are you then? Your leafsMind me o’ the pipes’ lood drone—And a’ your purple topsAre the pirly-wirly notesThat gang staggerin’ owre them as they groan.
Plant, what are you then? Your leafs
Mind me o’ the pipes’ lood drone
—And a’ your purple tops
Are the pirly-wirly notes
That gang staggerin’ owre them as they groan.
Or your leafs are alligatorsThat ha’e gobbled owre a haillCompany o’ Heilant sodgers,And left naethin’ but the tooriesO’ their Balmoral bonnets to tell the tale.
Or your leafs are alligators
That ha’e gobbled owre a haill
Company o’ Heilant sodgers,
And left naethin’ but the toories
O’ their Balmoral bonnets to tell the tale.
Or a muckle bellows blawin’Wi’ the sperks a’ whizzin’ oot;Or green tides sweeshin’’Neth heich-skeich stars,Or centuries fleein’ doun a water-chute.
Or a muckle bellows blawin’
Wi’ the sperks a’ whizzin’ oot;
Or green tides sweeshin’
’Neth heich-skeich stars,
Or centuries fleein’ doun a water-chute.
Grinnin’ gargoyle by a saint,Mephistopheles in Heaven,Skeleton at a tea-meetin’,Missin’ link—or creakin’Hinge atween the deid and livin’....
Grinnin’ gargoyle by a saint,
Mephistopheles in Heaven,
Skeleton at a tea-meetin’,
Missin’ link—or creakin’
Hinge atween the deid and livin’....
(I kent a Terrier in a sham fecht aince,Wha louped a dyke and landed on a thistle.He’d naething on ava aneth his kilt.Schönberg has nae notation for his whistle.)...
(I kent a Terrier in a sham fecht aince,
Wha louped a dyke and landed on a thistle.
He’d naething on ava aneth his kilt.
Schönberg has nae notation for his whistle.)...
(Gin you’re surprised a village drunkForeign references s’ud fool in,You ha’ena the respect you s’udFor oor guid Scottish schoolin’.
(Gin you’re surprised a village drunk
Foreign references s’ud fool in,
You ha’ena the respect you s’ud
For oor guid Scottish schoolin’.
For we’ve the maist unlikely folkAye braggin’ o’ oor lear,And, tho’ I’m drunk, for Scotland’s sakeI tak’ my barrowsteel here!
For we’ve the maist unlikely folk
Aye braggin’ o’ oor lear,
And, tho’ I’m drunk, for Scotland’s sake
I tak’ my barrowsteel here!
Yet Europe’s faur eneuch for me,Puir fule, when bairns ken mairO’ th’ ither warld than I o’ this—But that’s no’ here nor there!)...
Yet Europe’s faur eneuch for me,
Puir fule, when bairns ken mair
O’ th’ ither warld than I o’ this
—But that’s no’ here nor there!)...
Guid sakes, I’m in a dreidfu’ state.I’ll ha’e nae inklin’ suneGin I’m the drinker or the drink,The thistle or the mune.
Guid sakes, I’m in a dreidfu’ state.
I’ll ha’e nae inklin’ sune
Gin I’m the drinker or the drink,
The thistle or the mune.
I’m geylies feart I couldna tellGin I su’d lay me doonThe difference betwixt the warldAnd my ain heid gaen’ roon’!...
I’m geylies feart I couldna tell
Gin I su’d lay me doon
The difference betwixt the warld
And my ain heid gaen’ roon’!...
Drums in the Walligate, pipes in the air,Come and hear the cryin’ o’ the Fair.
Drums in the Walligate, pipes in the air,
Come and hear the cryin’ o’ the Fair.
A’ as it used to be, when I was a loonOn Common-Ridin’ Day in the Muckle Toon.
A’ as it used to be, when I was a loon
On Common-Ridin’ Day in the Muckle Toon.
The bearer twirls the Bannock-and-Saut-Herrin’,The Croon o’ Roses through the lift is farin’,
The bearer twirls the Bannock-and-Saut-Herrin’,
The Croon o’ Roses through the lift is farin’,
The aucht-fit thistle wallops on hie;In heather besoms a’ the hills gang by.
The aucht-fit thistle wallops on hie;
In heather besoms a’ the hills gang by.
But noo it’s a’ the fish o’ the seaNailed on the roond o’ the Earth to me.
But noo it’s a’ the fish o’ the sea
Nailed on the roond o’ the Earth to me.
Beauty and Love that are bobbin’ there;Syne the breengin’ growth that alane I bear;
Beauty and Love that are bobbin’ there;
Syne the breengin’ growth that alane I bear;
And Scotland followin’ on ahintFor threepenny bits spleet-new frae the mint.
And Scotland followin’ on ahint
For threepenny bits spleet-new frae the mint.
Drums in the Walligate, pipes in the air,The wallopin’ thistle is ill to bear.
Drums in the Walligate, pipes in the air,
The wallopin’ thistle is ill to bear.
But I’ll dance the nicht wi’ the stars o’ HeavenIn the Mairket Place as shair’s I’m livin’.
But I’ll dance the nicht wi’ the stars o’ Heaven
In the Mairket Place as shair’s I’m livin’.
Easy to cairry roses or herrin’,And the lave may weel their threepenny bits earn.
Easy to cairry roses or herrin’,
And the lave may weel their threepenny bits earn.
Devil the star! It’s Jean I’ll ha’eAgain as she was on her weddin’ day....
Devil the star! It’s Jean I’ll ha’e
Again as she was on her weddin’ day....
Nerves in stounds o’ delight,Muscles in pride o’ power,Bluid as wi’ roses dightLife’s toppin’ pinnacles owre,The thistle yet’ll uniteMan and the Infinite!
Nerves in stounds o’ delight,
Muscles in pride o’ power,
Bluid as wi’ roses dight
Life’s toppin’ pinnacles owre,
The thistle yet’ll unite
Man and the Infinite!
Swippert and swith wi’ virrIn the howes o’ man’s hertForever its muckle roots stirLike a Leviathan astert,Till’ts coils like a thistle’s leafsSweep space wi’ levin sheafs.
Swippert and swith wi’ virr
In the howes o’ man’s hert
Forever its muckle roots stir
Like a Leviathan astert,
Till’ts coils like a thistle’s leafs
Sweep space wi’ levin sheafs.
Frae laichest deeps o’ the oceanIt rises in flight upon flight,And ’yont its uttermaist motionCan still set roses alight,As else unreachable heightFa’s under its triumphin’ sight.
Frae laichest deeps o’ the ocean
It rises in flight upon flight,
And ’yont its uttermaist motion
Can still set roses alight,
As else unreachable height
Fa’s under its triumphin’ sight.
Here is the root that feedsThe shank wi’ the blindin’ wingsDwinin’ abuneheid to gleidsLike stars in their keethin’ rings,And blooms in sunrise and sunsetInowre Eternity’s yett.
Here is the root that feeds
The shank wi’ the blindin’ wings
Dwinin’ abuneheid to gleids
Like stars in their keethin’ rings,
And blooms in sunrise and sunset
Inowre Eternity’s yett.