Lay haud o’ my hert and feelFountains ootloupin’ the starnsOr see the Universe reelSet gaen’ by my eident harns,Or test the strength o’ my spauldThe wecht o’ a’ thing to hauld!—The howes o’ Man’s hert are bare,The Dragon’s left them for good,There’s nocht but naethingness there,The hole whaur the Thistle stood,That rootless and radiant fliesA Phœnix in Paradise!...Masoch and SadeTurned into aneHavoc ha’e madeO’ my a’e brain.Weel, gin it’s SadeLet it be saidThey’ve made me mad—That’ll da’e instead.But it’s no’ insteadIn Scots, but insteed.—The life they’ve ledIn my puir heid.But aince I’ve seenIn the thistle hereA’ that they’ve beenI’ll aiblins wun clear.Thistleless fule,You’ll ha’e nocht leftBut the hole frae whichLife’s struggle is reft!...Reason ser’s nae end but pleasure,Truth’s no’ an end but a meansTo a wider knowledge o’ lifeAnd a keener interest in’t.We wha are poets and artistsMove frae inklin’ to inklin’,And live for oor antrin lichtnin’sIn the haingles atweenwhiles,Laich as the feck o’ mankindWhence we breenge in unkennable shapes—Crockats up, hair kaimed to the lift,And no’ to cree legs wi’!...We’re ootward boond frae Scotland.Guid-bye, fare-ye-weel; guid-bye, fare-ye-weel.—A’ the Scots that ever wurGang ootward in a creel.We’re ootward boond frae Scotland.Guid-bye, fare-ye-weel; guid-bye, fare-ye-weel.The cross-tap is a monkey-treeThat nane o’ us can spiel.We’ve never seen the Captain,But the first mate is a Jew.We’ve shipped aboord Eternity.Adieu, kind freends, adieu!...In the creel or on the gellO’ oor coutribat and ganien.What gin ithers see or hearNaething but a gowkstorm?Gin you stop the galliardTo teach them hoo to dance,There comes in CorbaudieAnd turns their gammons up!...You vegetable cat’s melody!YourConcert MiaulantisA triumph o’ discord shairly,And suits my fancy fairly—I’m shair that Scott’ll agreeHe canna vie wi’ this....Said my body to my mind,“I’ve been startled whiles to find,When Jean has been in bed wi’ me,A kind o’ Christianity!”To my body said my mind,“But your benmaist thocht you’ll findWas ‘Bother what I think I feel—Jean kens the set o’ my bluid owre weel,And lauchs to see me in the creelO’ my courage-bag confined.’”...I wish I kent the physical basisO’ a’ life’s seemin’ airs and graces.It’s queer the thochts a kittled cullCan lowse or splairgin’ glit annul.Man’s spreit is wi’ his ingangs twinedIn ways that he can ne’er unwind.A wumman whiles a bawaw gi’esThat clean abaws him gin he sees.Or wi’ a movement o’ a legShows’m his mind is juist a geg.I’se warrant Jean ’ud no’ be langIn findin’ whence this thistle sprang.Mebbe it’s juist because I’m no’Beddit wi’ her that gars it grow!...A luvin’ wumman is a licht[6]That shows a man his waefu’ plicht,Bleezin’ steady on ilka bane,Wrigglin’ sinnen an’ twinin’ vein,Or fleerin’ quick an’ gane again,And the mair scunnersome the sichtThe mair for love and licht he’s fainTill clear and chitterin’ and neshMove a’ the miseries o’ his flesh....O lass, wha see’est meAs I daur hardly see,I marvel that your bonny eenAre as they hadna’ seen.Through a’ my self-respectThey see the truth abject—Gin you could pierce their blindin’ lichtYou’d see a fouler sicht!...O wha’s the bride that cairries the bunchO’ thistles blinterin’ white?Her cuckold bridegroom little dreidsWhat he sail ken this nicht.For closer than gudeman can comeAnd closer to’r than hersel’,Wha didna need her maidenheidHas wrocht his purpose fell.O wha’s been here afore me, lass,And hoo did he get in?—A man that deed or I was bornThis evil thing has din.And left, as it were on a corpse,Your maidenheid to me?—Nae lass, gudeman, sin’ Time began’S hed ony mair to gi’e.But I can gi’e ye kindness, lad,And a pair o’ willin’ hands,And you sall ha’e my briests like stars,My limbs like willow wands,And on my lips ye’ll heed nae mair,And in my hair forget,The seed o’ a’ the men that inMy virgin womb ha’e met....Millions o’ wimmen bring forth in painMillions o’ bairns that are no’ worth ha’en.Wull ever a wumman be big againWi’s muckle’s a Christ? Yech, there’s nae sayin’.Gin that’s the best that you ha’e comin’,Fegs but I’m sorry for you, wumman!Yet a’e thing’s certain.—Your faith is great.Whatever happens, you’ll no’ be blate!...Mary lay in jizzenAs it were claith o’ gowd,But it’s in orra dudsIlka ither bairntime’s row’d.Christ had never toothick,Christ was never seeck,But Man’s a fiky bairnWi’ bellythraw, ripples, and worm-i’-the-cheek!...Dae what ye wull ye canna parryThis skeleton-at-the-feast that through the starryMaze o’ the warld’s intoxicatin’ soireeClaughts ye, as micht at an affrontit queanA bastard wean!Prood mune, ye needna thring your shouder there,And at your puir get like a snawstorm stare,It’s yours—there’s nae denyin’t—and I’m shairYou’d no’ enjoy the evenin’ much the lessGin you’d but openly confess!Dod! It’s an eaten and a spewed-like thing,Fell like a little-bodies’ changeling,And it’s nae credit t’ye that you s’ud bringThe like to life—yet, gi’en a mither’s love,—Hee, hee!—wha kens hoo’t micht improve?...Or is this Heaven, this yalla licht,And I the aft’rins o’ the Earth,Or sic’s in this wanchancy timeMay weel fin’ sudden birth?The roots that wi’ the worms competeHauf-publish me upon the air.The struggle that divides me stillIs seen fu’ plainly there.The thistle’s shank scarce holes the grun’,My grave’ll spare nae mair I doot.—The crack’s fu’ wide; the shank’s fu’ strang;A’ that I was is oot.My knots o’ nerves that struggled sairAre weel reflected in the herb;My crookit instincts were like this,As sterile and acerb.My self-tormented spirit tookThe shape repeated in the thistle;Sma’ beauty jouked my rawny banesAnd maze o’ gristle.I seek nae peety, Paraclete,And, fegs, I think the joke is rich—Pairt soul, pairt skeleton’s come up;They kentna which was which!...Thou Daith in which my lifeSae vain a thing can seem,Frae whatna source d’ye borrowYour devastatin’ gleam?Nae doot that hidden sun’Ud look fu’ wae ana’,Gin I could see it in the lichtThat frae the Earth you draw!...Shudderin’ thistle, gi’e owre, gi’e owre!A’body’s gi’en in to the facts o’ life;The impossible truth’ll triumph at last,And mock your strife.Your sallow leafs can never thraw,Wi’ a’ their oorie shakin’,Ae doot into the hert o’ lifeThat it may be mistak’n....O Scotland isThebarren fig.Up, carles, upAnd roond it jig.Auld Moses tookA dry stick andInstantly itFloo’ered in his hand.Pu’ Scotland up,And wha can sayIt winna budAnd blossom tae.A miracle’sOor only chance.Up, carles, upAnd let us dance!Puir Burns, wha’s bouquet like a shot kail blaws—Will this rouch sicht no’ gi’e the orchids pause?The Gairdens o’ the Muses may be braw,But nane like oors can breenge and eat ana’!And owre the kailyaird-wa’ Dunbar they’ve flung,And a’ their countrymen that e’er ha’e sungFor ither than ploomen’s lugs or to enrichenPlots on Parnassus set apairt for kitchen.Ploomen and ploomen’s wives—shades o’ the ManseMay weel be at the heid o’ sic a dance,As through the polish’t ha’s o’ Europe leadsThe rout o’ bagpipes, haggis, and sheep’s heids!The vandal Scot! Frae Branksome’s deidly barrowI struggle yet to free a’e winsome marrow,To show what Scotland micht ha’e hed insteadO’ this preposterous Presbyterian breed.(Gin Glesca folk are tired o’ Hengler,And still need breid and circuses, there’s Spengler,Or gin ye s’ud need mair than ane to teach ye,Then learn frae Dostoevski and frae Nietzsche.And let the lesson be—to be yersel’s,Ye needna fash gin it’s to be ocht else.To be yersel’s—and to mak’ that worth bein’.Nae harder job to mortals has been gi’en.To save your souls fu’ mony o’ ye are fain,But de’il a dizzen to mak’ it worth the daein’.I widna gi’e five meenits wi’ DunbarFor a’ the millions o’ ye as ye are).I micht ha’e been contentit wi’ the RoseGin I’d had ony reason to supposeThat what the English dae can e’er mak’ guidFor what Scots dinna—and first and foremaist should.I micht ha’e been contentit—gin the feckO’ my ain folk had grovelled wi’ less respec’,But their obsequious devotionMade it for me a criminal emotion.I micht ha’e been contentit—ere I sawThat there were fields on which it couldna draw,(While strang-er roots ran under’t) and a’e threidO’t drew frae Scotland a’ that it could need,And left the maist o’ Scotland fallow(Save for the patch on which the kail-blades wallow),And saw hoo ither countries’ genius drewElements like mine that in a rose ne’er grew....Gin the threid haud’n us to the rose were snapt,There’s no’ a’e petal o’t that ’ud be clapt.A’ Scotland gi’es gangs but to jags or stalk,The bloom is English—and ’ud ken nae lack!...O drumlie clood o’ crudity and cant,Obliteratin’ as the Easter roukThat rows up frae the howes and droons the heichs,And turns the country to a faceless spook.Like blurry shapes o’ landmarks in the haarThe bonny idiosyncratic place-names loom,Clues to the vieve and maikless life that’s lainHappit for centuries in an alien gloom....Eneuch! For noo I’m in the mood,Scotland, responsive to my thoughts,Lichts mile by mile, as my ain nerves,Frae Maidenheid to John o’ Groats!What are prophets and priests and kings,What’s ocht to the people o’ Scotland?Speak—and Cruivie’ll goam at you,Gilsanquhar jalouse you’re dottlin!And Edinburgh and GlasgowAre like ploomen in a pub.They want to hear o’ naethingBut their ain foul hubbub....The fules are richt; an extra thochtIs neither here nor there.Oor lives may differ as they like—The self-same fate we share.And whiles I wish I’d nae mair senseThan Cruivie and Gilsanquhar,And envy their rude health and curseMy gnawin’ canker.Guid sakes, ye dinna need to passOny exam. to dee—Daith canna tell a common flechFrae a performin’ flea!...It sets you weel to slaverTo let sic gaadies fa’—The mune’s the muckle white whaleI seek in vain to kaa!The Earth’s my mastless samyn,The thistle my ruined sail.—Le’e go as you maun in the end,And droon in your plumm o’ ale!...Clear keltie aff an’ fill againWithoot corneigh bein’ cryit,The drink’s aye best that follows a drink.Clear keltie aff and try it.Be’t whisky gill or penny wheep,Or ony ither lotion,We ’bood to ha’e a thimblefu’ first,And syne we’ll toom an ocean!...“To Luna at the Craidle-and-CoffinTo sof’n her hert if owt can sof’n:—Auld bag o’ tricks, ye needna comeAnd think to stap me in your womb.You needna fash to rax and strain.Carline, I’llnobe born againIn ony brat you can produce.Carline, gi’e owre—O what’s the use?You pay nae heed but plop me in,Syne shove me oot, and winna be din,—Owre and owre, the same auld trick,Cratur withoot climateric!...“Noo Cutty Sark’s tint that ana,And dances in her skin—Ha! Ha!I canna ride awa’ like Tam,But e’en maun bide juist whaur I am.I canna ride—and gin I could,I’d sune be sorry I hedna stood,For less than a’ there is to see’ll never be owre muckle for me.Cutty, gin you’ve mair to strip,Aff wi’t, lass—and let it rip!”...Ilka pleesure I can ha’eEnds like a dram ta’en yesterday.And tho’ to ha’e it I am lorn—What better ’ud I be the morn?...My belly on the gantrees there,The spigot frae my cullage,And wow but how the fizzin’ yillIn spilth increased the ullage!I was an anxious barrel, lad,When first they tapped my bung.They whistled me up, yet thro’ the liftMy freaths like rainbows swung.Waesucks, a pride for ony bar,The boast o’ barleyhood,Like Noah’s Ark abune the faemMaun float, a gantin’ cude,For I was thrawn fu’ cock owre sune,And wi’ a single jawI made the pub a blindin’ swelth,And how’d the warld awa’!...What forest worn to the back-hauf’s this,What Eden brocht doon to a bean-swaup?The thistle’s to earth as the manIn the mune’s to the mune, puir chap.The haill warld’s barkin’ and fleein’,And this is its echo and aiker,A soond that arrears in my lugHerrin’-banein’ back to its maker,A swaw like a flaw in a jewelOrnadryv[7]jaloused in a man,Or Creation unbiggit againTo the draucht wi’ which it began....Abordage o’ this toom houk’s nae mowse.It munks and’s ill to lay haud o’,As gin a man ettled to rideOn the shouders o’ his ain shadow.I canna biel’t; tho’ steekin’ an e’eTither’s munkie wi’ munebeam for knool in’t,For there’s nae sta’-tree and the brute’s awa’Wi’ me kinkin’ like foudrie ahint....Sae Eternity’ll buff nor styeFor Time, and shies at a touch, man;Yet aye in a belth o’ ThochtComes alist like the Fleein’ Dutchman....As the worms’ll breed in my corpse untilIt’s like a rice-puddin’, the thistleHas made an eel-ark o’ the liftWhaur elvers like skirl-in-the-pan sizzle,Like a thunder-plump on the sunlicht,Or the slounge o’ daith on my dreams,Or as to a fair forfochen manA breedin’ wife’s beddiness seems,Saragossa Sea, St Vitus’ Dance,Acafardin a brain’s despite,Or lunacy that thinks a’ elseIs loony—and is dootless richt!...Gin my thochts that circle like hobby-horses’Udna loosen to nightmares I’d sleep;For nocht but a chowed core’s left whaur Jerusalem layLike aipples in a heap!...It’s a queer thing to tryst wi’ a wummanWhen the boss o’ her body’s gane,And her banes in the wund as she comesDirl like a raff o’ rain.It’s a queer thing to tryst wi’ a wummanWhen her ghaist frae abuneheid keeks,And you see in the licht o’t that a’You ha’e o’r’s the cleiks....What forest worn to the backhauf’s this,What Eden brocht doon to a beanswaup?—A’ the ferlies o’ natur’ spring frae the earth,And into’t again maun drap.Animals, vegetables, what are they a’But as thochts that a man has ha’en?And Earth sall be like a toom skull syne.—Whaur’ll its thochts be then?...The munelicht is my knowledge o’ mysel’,Mysel’ the thistle in the munelicht seen,And hauf my shape has fund itsel’ in theeAnd hauf my knowledge in your piercin’ een.E’en as the munelicht’s borrowed frae the sunI ha’e my knowledge o’ mysel’ frae thee,And much that nane but thee can e’er mak’ clear,Save my licht’s frae the source, is dark to me.Your acid tongue, vieve lauchter, and hawk’s een,And bluid that drobs like haill to quicken me,Can turn the mid-day black or midnicht bricht,Lowse me frae licht or eke frae darkness free.Bite into me forever mair and liftMe clear o’ chaos in a great reliefTill, like this thistle in the munelicht growin’,I brak in roses owre a hedge o’ grief....I am like Burns, and ony wenchCan ser’ me for a time.Licht’s in them a’—in some a sun,In some the merest skime.I’m no’ like Burns, and weel I ken,Tho’ ony wench can ser’,It’s no’ through mony but through yinThat ony man wuns fer....I weddit thee frae fause love, lass,To free thee and to free mysel’;But man and wumman tied for lifeTrue can be and truth can tell.Pit ony couple in a knotThey canna lowse and needna try,And mair o’ love at last they’ll ken—If ocht!—than joy’ll alane descry.For them as for the beasts, my wife,A’s fer frae dune when pleesure’s owre,And coontless difficulties garIlk hert discover a’ its power.I dinna say that bairns alaneAre true love’s task—a sairer taskIs aiblins to create oorselsAs we can be—it’s that I ask.Create oorsels, syne bairns, syne race.Sae on the cod I see’t in youWi’ Maidenkirk to John o’ GroatsThe bosom that you draw me to.And nae Scot wi’ a wumman lies,But I am he and ken as ’twereA stage I’ve passed as he maun pass’t,Gin he grows up, his way wi’ her!...A’thing wi’ which a manCan intromit’s a wumman,And can, and s’ud, becomeAs intimate and human.And Jean’s nae mair my wifeThan whisky is at times,Or munelicht or a thistleOr kittle thochts or rhymes.He’s no’ a man ava’,And lacks a proper pride,Gin less than a’ the warldCan ser’ him for a bride!...Use, then, my lust for whisky and for thee,Your function but to be and let me beAnd see and let me see.If in a lesser licht I grope my way,Or use’t for ends that need your different rayWhelm’t in superior day.Then aye increase and ne’er withdraw your licht.—Gin it shows either o’s in hideous plicht,What gain to turn’t to nicht?Whisky mak’s Heaven or Hell and whiles mells baith,Disease is but the privy torch o’ Daith,—But sex reveals life, faith!I need them a’ and maun be aye at strife.Daith and ayont are nocht but pairts o’ life.—Then be life’s licht, my wife!...Love often wuns freeIn lust to be strangled,Or love, o’ lust free,In law’s sairly tangled.And it’s ill to tell whetherLaw or lust is to blameWhen love’s chokit up—It comes a’ to the same.In this sorry growthWhatna beauty is tintThat freed o’t micht findA waur fate than is in’t?...Yank oot your orra boughs, my hert!God gied man speech and speech created thocht,He gied man speech but to the Scots gied nochtBarrin’ this clytach that they’ve never brochtTo onything but sic a Blottie OAs some bairn’s copybook micht show,A spook o’ soond that frae the unkent graveIn which oor nation lies loups up to waveSic leprous chuns as tatties haveThat cellar-boond send spindles gropin’Towards ony hole that’s open,Like waesome fingers in the dark that thinkThey still may widen the ane and only chinkThat e’er has gi’en mankind a blinkO’ Hope—tho’ ev’n in that puir lichtThey s’ud ha’e seen their hopeless plicht.This puir relation o’ my topplin’ mood,This country cousin, streak o’ churl-bluid,This hopeless airgh ’twixt a’ we can and should,This Past that like Astarte’s sting I feel,This arrow in Achilles’ heel.Yank oot your orra boughs, my hert!Mebbe we’re in a vicious circle cast,Mebbe there’s limits we can ne’er get past,Mebbe we’re sentrices that at the lastAre flung aside, and no’ the pillars and propsO’ Heaven foraye as in oor hopes.Oor growth at least nae steady progress shows,Genius in mankind like an antrin roseAbune a jungly waste o’ effort grows,But to Man’s purpose it mak’s little odds,And seems irrelevant to God’s....
Lay haud o’ my hert and feelFountains ootloupin’ the starnsOr see the Universe reelSet gaen’ by my eident harns,Or test the strength o’ my spauldThe wecht o’ a’ thing to hauld!—The howes o’ Man’s hert are bare,The Dragon’s left them for good,There’s nocht but naethingness there,The hole whaur the Thistle stood,That rootless and radiant fliesA Phœnix in Paradise!...Masoch and SadeTurned into aneHavoc ha’e madeO’ my a’e brain.Weel, gin it’s SadeLet it be saidThey’ve made me mad—That’ll da’e instead.But it’s no’ insteadIn Scots, but insteed.—The life they’ve ledIn my puir heid.But aince I’ve seenIn the thistle hereA’ that they’ve beenI’ll aiblins wun clear.Thistleless fule,You’ll ha’e nocht leftBut the hole frae whichLife’s struggle is reft!...Reason ser’s nae end but pleasure,Truth’s no’ an end but a meansTo a wider knowledge o’ lifeAnd a keener interest in’t.We wha are poets and artistsMove frae inklin’ to inklin’,And live for oor antrin lichtnin’sIn the haingles atweenwhiles,Laich as the feck o’ mankindWhence we breenge in unkennable shapes—Crockats up, hair kaimed to the lift,And no’ to cree legs wi’!...We’re ootward boond frae Scotland.Guid-bye, fare-ye-weel; guid-bye, fare-ye-weel.—A’ the Scots that ever wurGang ootward in a creel.We’re ootward boond frae Scotland.Guid-bye, fare-ye-weel; guid-bye, fare-ye-weel.The cross-tap is a monkey-treeThat nane o’ us can spiel.We’ve never seen the Captain,But the first mate is a Jew.We’ve shipped aboord Eternity.Adieu, kind freends, adieu!...In the creel or on the gellO’ oor coutribat and ganien.What gin ithers see or hearNaething but a gowkstorm?Gin you stop the galliardTo teach them hoo to dance,There comes in CorbaudieAnd turns their gammons up!...You vegetable cat’s melody!YourConcert MiaulantisA triumph o’ discord shairly,And suits my fancy fairly—I’m shair that Scott’ll agreeHe canna vie wi’ this....Said my body to my mind,“I’ve been startled whiles to find,When Jean has been in bed wi’ me,A kind o’ Christianity!”To my body said my mind,“But your benmaist thocht you’ll findWas ‘Bother what I think I feel—Jean kens the set o’ my bluid owre weel,And lauchs to see me in the creelO’ my courage-bag confined.’”...I wish I kent the physical basisO’ a’ life’s seemin’ airs and graces.It’s queer the thochts a kittled cullCan lowse or splairgin’ glit annul.Man’s spreit is wi’ his ingangs twinedIn ways that he can ne’er unwind.A wumman whiles a bawaw gi’esThat clean abaws him gin he sees.Or wi’ a movement o’ a legShows’m his mind is juist a geg.I’se warrant Jean ’ud no’ be langIn findin’ whence this thistle sprang.Mebbe it’s juist because I’m no’Beddit wi’ her that gars it grow!...A luvin’ wumman is a licht[6]That shows a man his waefu’ plicht,Bleezin’ steady on ilka bane,Wrigglin’ sinnen an’ twinin’ vein,Or fleerin’ quick an’ gane again,And the mair scunnersome the sichtThe mair for love and licht he’s fainTill clear and chitterin’ and neshMove a’ the miseries o’ his flesh....O lass, wha see’est meAs I daur hardly see,I marvel that your bonny eenAre as they hadna’ seen.Through a’ my self-respectThey see the truth abject—Gin you could pierce their blindin’ lichtYou’d see a fouler sicht!...O wha’s the bride that cairries the bunchO’ thistles blinterin’ white?Her cuckold bridegroom little dreidsWhat he sail ken this nicht.For closer than gudeman can comeAnd closer to’r than hersel’,Wha didna need her maidenheidHas wrocht his purpose fell.O wha’s been here afore me, lass,And hoo did he get in?—A man that deed or I was bornThis evil thing has din.And left, as it were on a corpse,Your maidenheid to me?—Nae lass, gudeman, sin’ Time began’S hed ony mair to gi’e.But I can gi’e ye kindness, lad,And a pair o’ willin’ hands,And you sall ha’e my briests like stars,My limbs like willow wands,And on my lips ye’ll heed nae mair,And in my hair forget,The seed o’ a’ the men that inMy virgin womb ha’e met....Millions o’ wimmen bring forth in painMillions o’ bairns that are no’ worth ha’en.Wull ever a wumman be big againWi’s muckle’s a Christ? Yech, there’s nae sayin’.Gin that’s the best that you ha’e comin’,Fegs but I’m sorry for you, wumman!Yet a’e thing’s certain.—Your faith is great.Whatever happens, you’ll no’ be blate!...Mary lay in jizzenAs it were claith o’ gowd,But it’s in orra dudsIlka ither bairntime’s row’d.Christ had never toothick,Christ was never seeck,But Man’s a fiky bairnWi’ bellythraw, ripples, and worm-i’-the-cheek!...Dae what ye wull ye canna parryThis skeleton-at-the-feast that through the starryMaze o’ the warld’s intoxicatin’ soireeClaughts ye, as micht at an affrontit queanA bastard wean!Prood mune, ye needna thring your shouder there,And at your puir get like a snawstorm stare,It’s yours—there’s nae denyin’t—and I’m shairYou’d no’ enjoy the evenin’ much the lessGin you’d but openly confess!Dod! It’s an eaten and a spewed-like thing,Fell like a little-bodies’ changeling,And it’s nae credit t’ye that you s’ud bringThe like to life—yet, gi’en a mither’s love,—Hee, hee!—wha kens hoo’t micht improve?...Or is this Heaven, this yalla licht,And I the aft’rins o’ the Earth,Or sic’s in this wanchancy timeMay weel fin’ sudden birth?The roots that wi’ the worms competeHauf-publish me upon the air.The struggle that divides me stillIs seen fu’ plainly there.The thistle’s shank scarce holes the grun’,My grave’ll spare nae mair I doot.—The crack’s fu’ wide; the shank’s fu’ strang;A’ that I was is oot.My knots o’ nerves that struggled sairAre weel reflected in the herb;My crookit instincts were like this,As sterile and acerb.My self-tormented spirit tookThe shape repeated in the thistle;Sma’ beauty jouked my rawny banesAnd maze o’ gristle.I seek nae peety, Paraclete,And, fegs, I think the joke is rich—Pairt soul, pairt skeleton’s come up;They kentna which was which!...Thou Daith in which my lifeSae vain a thing can seem,Frae whatna source d’ye borrowYour devastatin’ gleam?Nae doot that hidden sun’Ud look fu’ wae ana’,Gin I could see it in the lichtThat frae the Earth you draw!...Shudderin’ thistle, gi’e owre, gi’e owre!A’body’s gi’en in to the facts o’ life;The impossible truth’ll triumph at last,And mock your strife.Your sallow leafs can never thraw,Wi’ a’ their oorie shakin’,Ae doot into the hert o’ lifeThat it may be mistak’n....O Scotland isThebarren fig.Up, carles, upAnd roond it jig.Auld Moses tookA dry stick andInstantly itFloo’ered in his hand.Pu’ Scotland up,And wha can sayIt winna budAnd blossom tae.A miracle’sOor only chance.Up, carles, upAnd let us dance!Puir Burns, wha’s bouquet like a shot kail blaws—Will this rouch sicht no’ gi’e the orchids pause?The Gairdens o’ the Muses may be braw,But nane like oors can breenge and eat ana’!And owre the kailyaird-wa’ Dunbar they’ve flung,And a’ their countrymen that e’er ha’e sungFor ither than ploomen’s lugs or to enrichenPlots on Parnassus set apairt for kitchen.Ploomen and ploomen’s wives—shades o’ the ManseMay weel be at the heid o’ sic a dance,As through the polish’t ha’s o’ Europe leadsThe rout o’ bagpipes, haggis, and sheep’s heids!The vandal Scot! Frae Branksome’s deidly barrowI struggle yet to free a’e winsome marrow,To show what Scotland micht ha’e hed insteadO’ this preposterous Presbyterian breed.(Gin Glesca folk are tired o’ Hengler,And still need breid and circuses, there’s Spengler,Or gin ye s’ud need mair than ane to teach ye,Then learn frae Dostoevski and frae Nietzsche.And let the lesson be—to be yersel’s,Ye needna fash gin it’s to be ocht else.To be yersel’s—and to mak’ that worth bein’.Nae harder job to mortals has been gi’en.To save your souls fu’ mony o’ ye are fain,But de’il a dizzen to mak’ it worth the daein’.I widna gi’e five meenits wi’ DunbarFor a’ the millions o’ ye as ye are).I micht ha’e been contentit wi’ the RoseGin I’d had ony reason to supposeThat what the English dae can e’er mak’ guidFor what Scots dinna—and first and foremaist should.I micht ha’e been contentit—gin the feckO’ my ain folk had grovelled wi’ less respec’,But their obsequious devotionMade it for me a criminal emotion.I micht ha’e been contentit—ere I sawThat there were fields on which it couldna draw,(While strang-er roots ran under’t) and a’e threidO’t drew frae Scotland a’ that it could need,And left the maist o’ Scotland fallow(Save for the patch on which the kail-blades wallow),And saw hoo ither countries’ genius drewElements like mine that in a rose ne’er grew....Gin the threid haud’n us to the rose were snapt,There’s no’ a’e petal o’t that ’ud be clapt.A’ Scotland gi’es gangs but to jags or stalk,The bloom is English—and ’ud ken nae lack!...O drumlie clood o’ crudity and cant,Obliteratin’ as the Easter roukThat rows up frae the howes and droons the heichs,And turns the country to a faceless spook.Like blurry shapes o’ landmarks in the haarThe bonny idiosyncratic place-names loom,Clues to the vieve and maikless life that’s lainHappit for centuries in an alien gloom....Eneuch! For noo I’m in the mood,Scotland, responsive to my thoughts,Lichts mile by mile, as my ain nerves,Frae Maidenheid to John o’ Groats!What are prophets and priests and kings,What’s ocht to the people o’ Scotland?Speak—and Cruivie’ll goam at you,Gilsanquhar jalouse you’re dottlin!And Edinburgh and GlasgowAre like ploomen in a pub.They want to hear o’ naethingBut their ain foul hubbub....The fules are richt; an extra thochtIs neither here nor there.Oor lives may differ as they like—The self-same fate we share.And whiles I wish I’d nae mair senseThan Cruivie and Gilsanquhar,And envy their rude health and curseMy gnawin’ canker.Guid sakes, ye dinna need to passOny exam. to dee—Daith canna tell a common flechFrae a performin’ flea!...It sets you weel to slaverTo let sic gaadies fa’—The mune’s the muckle white whaleI seek in vain to kaa!The Earth’s my mastless samyn,The thistle my ruined sail.—Le’e go as you maun in the end,And droon in your plumm o’ ale!...Clear keltie aff an’ fill againWithoot corneigh bein’ cryit,The drink’s aye best that follows a drink.Clear keltie aff and try it.Be’t whisky gill or penny wheep,Or ony ither lotion,We ’bood to ha’e a thimblefu’ first,And syne we’ll toom an ocean!...“To Luna at the Craidle-and-CoffinTo sof’n her hert if owt can sof’n:—Auld bag o’ tricks, ye needna comeAnd think to stap me in your womb.You needna fash to rax and strain.Carline, I’llnobe born againIn ony brat you can produce.Carline, gi’e owre—O what’s the use?You pay nae heed but plop me in,Syne shove me oot, and winna be din,—Owre and owre, the same auld trick,Cratur withoot climateric!...“Noo Cutty Sark’s tint that ana,And dances in her skin—Ha! Ha!I canna ride awa’ like Tam,But e’en maun bide juist whaur I am.I canna ride—and gin I could,I’d sune be sorry I hedna stood,For less than a’ there is to see’ll never be owre muckle for me.Cutty, gin you’ve mair to strip,Aff wi’t, lass—and let it rip!”...Ilka pleesure I can ha’eEnds like a dram ta’en yesterday.And tho’ to ha’e it I am lorn—What better ’ud I be the morn?...My belly on the gantrees there,The spigot frae my cullage,And wow but how the fizzin’ yillIn spilth increased the ullage!I was an anxious barrel, lad,When first they tapped my bung.They whistled me up, yet thro’ the liftMy freaths like rainbows swung.Waesucks, a pride for ony bar,The boast o’ barleyhood,Like Noah’s Ark abune the faemMaun float, a gantin’ cude,For I was thrawn fu’ cock owre sune,And wi’ a single jawI made the pub a blindin’ swelth,And how’d the warld awa’!...What forest worn to the back-hauf’s this,What Eden brocht doon to a bean-swaup?The thistle’s to earth as the manIn the mune’s to the mune, puir chap.The haill warld’s barkin’ and fleein’,And this is its echo and aiker,A soond that arrears in my lugHerrin’-banein’ back to its maker,A swaw like a flaw in a jewelOrnadryv[7]jaloused in a man,Or Creation unbiggit againTo the draucht wi’ which it began....Abordage o’ this toom houk’s nae mowse.It munks and’s ill to lay haud o’,As gin a man ettled to rideOn the shouders o’ his ain shadow.I canna biel’t; tho’ steekin’ an e’eTither’s munkie wi’ munebeam for knool in’t,For there’s nae sta’-tree and the brute’s awa’Wi’ me kinkin’ like foudrie ahint....Sae Eternity’ll buff nor styeFor Time, and shies at a touch, man;Yet aye in a belth o’ ThochtComes alist like the Fleein’ Dutchman....As the worms’ll breed in my corpse untilIt’s like a rice-puddin’, the thistleHas made an eel-ark o’ the liftWhaur elvers like skirl-in-the-pan sizzle,Like a thunder-plump on the sunlicht,Or the slounge o’ daith on my dreams,Or as to a fair forfochen manA breedin’ wife’s beddiness seems,Saragossa Sea, St Vitus’ Dance,Acafardin a brain’s despite,Or lunacy that thinks a’ elseIs loony—and is dootless richt!...Gin my thochts that circle like hobby-horses’Udna loosen to nightmares I’d sleep;For nocht but a chowed core’s left whaur Jerusalem layLike aipples in a heap!...It’s a queer thing to tryst wi’ a wummanWhen the boss o’ her body’s gane,And her banes in the wund as she comesDirl like a raff o’ rain.It’s a queer thing to tryst wi’ a wummanWhen her ghaist frae abuneheid keeks,And you see in the licht o’t that a’You ha’e o’r’s the cleiks....What forest worn to the backhauf’s this,What Eden brocht doon to a beanswaup?—A’ the ferlies o’ natur’ spring frae the earth,And into’t again maun drap.Animals, vegetables, what are they a’But as thochts that a man has ha’en?And Earth sall be like a toom skull syne.—Whaur’ll its thochts be then?...The munelicht is my knowledge o’ mysel’,Mysel’ the thistle in the munelicht seen,And hauf my shape has fund itsel’ in theeAnd hauf my knowledge in your piercin’ een.E’en as the munelicht’s borrowed frae the sunI ha’e my knowledge o’ mysel’ frae thee,And much that nane but thee can e’er mak’ clear,Save my licht’s frae the source, is dark to me.Your acid tongue, vieve lauchter, and hawk’s een,And bluid that drobs like haill to quicken me,Can turn the mid-day black or midnicht bricht,Lowse me frae licht or eke frae darkness free.Bite into me forever mair and liftMe clear o’ chaos in a great reliefTill, like this thistle in the munelicht growin’,I brak in roses owre a hedge o’ grief....I am like Burns, and ony wenchCan ser’ me for a time.Licht’s in them a’—in some a sun,In some the merest skime.I’m no’ like Burns, and weel I ken,Tho’ ony wench can ser’,It’s no’ through mony but through yinThat ony man wuns fer....I weddit thee frae fause love, lass,To free thee and to free mysel’;But man and wumman tied for lifeTrue can be and truth can tell.Pit ony couple in a knotThey canna lowse and needna try,And mair o’ love at last they’ll ken—If ocht!—than joy’ll alane descry.For them as for the beasts, my wife,A’s fer frae dune when pleesure’s owre,And coontless difficulties garIlk hert discover a’ its power.I dinna say that bairns alaneAre true love’s task—a sairer taskIs aiblins to create oorselsAs we can be—it’s that I ask.Create oorsels, syne bairns, syne race.Sae on the cod I see’t in youWi’ Maidenkirk to John o’ GroatsThe bosom that you draw me to.And nae Scot wi’ a wumman lies,But I am he and ken as ’twereA stage I’ve passed as he maun pass’t,Gin he grows up, his way wi’ her!...A’thing wi’ which a manCan intromit’s a wumman,And can, and s’ud, becomeAs intimate and human.And Jean’s nae mair my wifeThan whisky is at times,Or munelicht or a thistleOr kittle thochts or rhymes.He’s no’ a man ava’,And lacks a proper pride,Gin less than a’ the warldCan ser’ him for a bride!...Use, then, my lust for whisky and for thee,Your function but to be and let me beAnd see and let me see.If in a lesser licht I grope my way,Or use’t for ends that need your different rayWhelm’t in superior day.Then aye increase and ne’er withdraw your licht.—Gin it shows either o’s in hideous plicht,What gain to turn’t to nicht?Whisky mak’s Heaven or Hell and whiles mells baith,Disease is but the privy torch o’ Daith,—But sex reveals life, faith!I need them a’ and maun be aye at strife.Daith and ayont are nocht but pairts o’ life.—Then be life’s licht, my wife!...Love often wuns freeIn lust to be strangled,Or love, o’ lust free,In law’s sairly tangled.And it’s ill to tell whetherLaw or lust is to blameWhen love’s chokit up—It comes a’ to the same.In this sorry growthWhatna beauty is tintThat freed o’t micht findA waur fate than is in’t?...Yank oot your orra boughs, my hert!God gied man speech and speech created thocht,He gied man speech but to the Scots gied nochtBarrin’ this clytach that they’ve never brochtTo onything but sic a Blottie OAs some bairn’s copybook micht show,A spook o’ soond that frae the unkent graveIn which oor nation lies loups up to waveSic leprous chuns as tatties haveThat cellar-boond send spindles gropin’Towards ony hole that’s open,Like waesome fingers in the dark that thinkThey still may widen the ane and only chinkThat e’er has gi’en mankind a blinkO’ Hope—tho’ ev’n in that puir lichtThey s’ud ha’e seen their hopeless plicht.This puir relation o’ my topplin’ mood,This country cousin, streak o’ churl-bluid,This hopeless airgh ’twixt a’ we can and should,This Past that like Astarte’s sting I feel,This arrow in Achilles’ heel.Yank oot your orra boughs, my hert!Mebbe we’re in a vicious circle cast,Mebbe there’s limits we can ne’er get past,Mebbe we’re sentrices that at the lastAre flung aside, and no’ the pillars and propsO’ Heaven foraye as in oor hopes.Oor growth at least nae steady progress shows,Genius in mankind like an antrin roseAbune a jungly waste o’ effort grows,But to Man’s purpose it mak’s little odds,And seems irrelevant to God’s....
Lay haud o’ my hert and feelFountains ootloupin’ the starnsOr see the Universe reelSet gaen’ by my eident harns,Or test the strength o’ my spauldThe wecht o’ a’ thing to hauld!
Lay haud o’ my hert and feel
Fountains ootloupin’ the starns
Or see the Universe reel
Set gaen’ by my eident harns,
Or test the strength o’ my spauld
The wecht o’ a’ thing to hauld!
—The howes o’ Man’s hert are bare,The Dragon’s left them for good,There’s nocht but naethingness there,The hole whaur the Thistle stood,That rootless and radiant fliesA Phœnix in Paradise!...
—The howes o’ Man’s hert are bare,
The Dragon’s left them for good,
There’s nocht but naethingness there,
The hole whaur the Thistle stood,
That rootless and radiant flies
A Phœnix in Paradise!...
Masoch and SadeTurned into aneHavoc ha’e madeO’ my a’e brain.
Masoch and Sade
Turned into ane
Havoc ha’e made
O’ my a’e brain.
Weel, gin it’s SadeLet it be saidThey’ve made me mad—That’ll da’e instead.
Weel, gin it’s Sade
Let it be said
They’ve made me mad
—That’ll da’e instead.
But it’s no’ insteadIn Scots, but insteed.—The life they’ve ledIn my puir heid.
But it’s no’ instead
In Scots, but insteed.
—The life they’ve led
In my puir heid.
But aince I’ve seenIn the thistle hereA’ that they’ve beenI’ll aiblins wun clear.
But aince I’ve seen
In the thistle here
A’ that they’ve been
I’ll aiblins wun clear.
Thistleless fule,You’ll ha’e nocht leftBut the hole frae whichLife’s struggle is reft!...
Thistleless fule,
You’ll ha’e nocht left
But the hole frae which
Life’s struggle is reft!...
Reason ser’s nae end but pleasure,Truth’s no’ an end but a meansTo a wider knowledge o’ lifeAnd a keener interest in’t.
Reason ser’s nae end but pleasure,
Truth’s no’ an end but a means
To a wider knowledge o’ life
And a keener interest in’t.
We wha are poets and artistsMove frae inklin’ to inklin’,And live for oor antrin lichtnin’sIn the haingles atweenwhiles,
We wha are poets and artists
Move frae inklin’ to inklin’,
And live for oor antrin lichtnin’s
In the haingles atweenwhiles,
Laich as the feck o’ mankindWhence we breenge in unkennable shapes—Crockats up, hair kaimed to the lift,And no’ to cree legs wi’!...
Laich as the feck o’ mankind
Whence we breenge in unkennable shapes
—Crockats up, hair kaimed to the lift,
And no’ to cree legs wi’!...
We’re ootward boond frae Scotland.Guid-bye, fare-ye-weel; guid-bye, fare-ye-weel.—A’ the Scots that ever wurGang ootward in a creel.
We’re ootward boond frae Scotland.
Guid-bye, fare-ye-weel; guid-bye, fare-ye-weel.
—A’ the Scots that ever wur
Gang ootward in a creel.
We’re ootward boond frae Scotland.Guid-bye, fare-ye-weel; guid-bye, fare-ye-weel.The cross-tap is a monkey-treeThat nane o’ us can spiel.
We’re ootward boond frae Scotland.
Guid-bye, fare-ye-weel; guid-bye, fare-ye-weel.
The cross-tap is a monkey-tree
That nane o’ us can spiel.
We’ve never seen the Captain,But the first mate is a Jew.We’ve shipped aboord Eternity.Adieu, kind freends, adieu!...
We’ve never seen the Captain,
But the first mate is a Jew.
We’ve shipped aboord Eternity.
Adieu, kind freends, adieu!...
In the creel or on the gellO’ oor coutribat and ganien.What gin ithers see or hearNaething but a gowkstorm?
In the creel or on the gell
O’ oor coutribat and ganien.
What gin ithers see or hear
Naething but a gowkstorm?
Gin you stop the galliardTo teach them hoo to dance,There comes in CorbaudieAnd turns their gammons up!...
Gin you stop the galliard
To teach them hoo to dance,
There comes in Corbaudie
And turns their gammons up!...
You vegetable cat’s melody!YourConcert MiaulantisA triumph o’ discord shairly,And suits my fancy fairly—I’m shair that Scott’ll agreeHe canna vie wi’ this....
You vegetable cat’s melody!
YourConcert Miaulantis
A triumph o’ discord shairly,
And suits my fancy fairly
—I’m shair that Scott’ll agree
He canna vie wi’ this....
Said my body to my mind,“I’ve been startled whiles to find,When Jean has been in bed wi’ me,A kind o’ Christianity!”
Said my body to my mind,
“I’ve been startled whiles to find,
When Jean has been in bed wi’ me,
A kind o’ Christianity!”
To my body said my mind,“But your benmaist thocht you’ll findWas ‘Bother what I think I feel—Jean kens the set o’ my bluid owre weel,And lauchs to see me in the creelO’ my courage-bag confined.’”...
To my body said my mind,
“But your benmaist thocht you’ll find
Was ‘Bother what I think I feel
—Jean kens the set o’ my bluid owre weel,
And lauchs to see me in the creel
O’ my courage-bag confined.’”...
I wish I kent the physical basisO’ a’ life’s seemin’ airs and graces.
I wish I kent the physical basis
O’ a’ life’s seemin’ airs and graces.
It’s queer the thochts a kittled cullCan lowse or splairgin’ glit annul.
It’s queer the thochts a kittled cull
Can lowse or splairgin’ glit annul.
Man’s spreit is wi’ his ingangs twinedIn ways that he can ne’er unwind.
Man’s spreit is wi’ his ingangs twined
In ways that he can ne’er unwind.
A wumman whiles a bawaw gi’esThat clean abaws him gin he sees.
A wumman whiles a bawaw gi’es
That clean abaws him gin he sees.
Or wi’ a movement o’ a legShows’m his mind is juist a geg.
Or wi’ a movement o’ a leg
Shows’m his mind is juist a geg.
I’se warrant Jean ’ud no’ be langIn findin’ whence this thistle sprang.
I’se warrant Jean ’ud no’ be lang
In findin’ whence this thistle sprang.
Mebbe it’s juist because I’m no’Beddit wi’ her that gars it grow!...
Mebbe it’s juist because I’m no’
Beddit wi’ her that gars it grow!...
A luvin’ wumman is a licht[6]That shows a man his waefu’ plicht,Bleezin’ steady on ilka bane,Wrigglin’ sinnen an’ twinin’ vein,Or fleerin’ quick an’ gane again,And the mair scunnersome the sichtThe mair for love and licht he’s fainTill clear and chitterin’ and neshMove a’ the miseries o’ his flesh....
A luvin’ wumman is a licht[6]
That shows a man his waefu’ plicht,
Bleezin’ steady on ilka bane,
Wrigglin’ sinnen an’ twinin’ vein,
Or fleerin’ quick an’ gane again,
And the mair scunnersome the sicht
The mair for love and licht he’s fain
Till clear and chitterin’ and nesh
Move a’ the miseries o’ his flesh....
O lass, wha see’est meAs I daur hardly see,I marvel that your bonny eenAre as they hadna’ seen.
O lass, wha see’est me
As I daur hardly see,
I marvel that your bonny een
Are as they hadna’ seen.
Through a’ my self-respectThey see the truth abject—Gin you could pierce their blindin’ lichtYou’d see a fouler sicht!...
Through a’ my self-respect
They see the truth abject
—Gin you could pierce their blindin’ licht
You’d see a fouler sicht!...
O wha’s the bride that cairries the bunchO’ thistles blinterin’ white?Her cuckold bridegroom little dreidsWhat he sail ken this nicht.
O wha’s the bride that cairries the bunch
O’ thistles blinterin’ white?
Her cuckold bridegroom little dreids
What he sail ken this nicht.
For closer than gudeman can comeAnd closer to’r than hersel’,Wha didna need her maidenheidHas wrocht his purpose fell.
For closer than gudeman can come
And closer to’r than hersel’,
Wha didna need her maidenheid
Has wrocht his purpose fell.
O wha’s been here afore me, lass,And hoo did he get in?—A man that deed or I was bornThis evil thing has din.
O wha’s been here afore me, lass,
And hoo did he get in?
—A man that deed or I was born
This evil thing has din.
And left, as it were on a corpse,Your maidenheid to me?—Nae lass, gudeman, sin’ Time began’S hed ony mair to gi’e.
And left, as it were on a corpse,
Your maidenheid to me?
—Nae lass, gudeman, sin’ Time began
’S hed ony mair to gi’e.
But I can gi’e ye kindness, lad,And a pair o’ willin’ hands,And you sall ha’e my briests like stars,My limbs like willow wands,
But I can gi’e ye kindness, lad,
And a pair o’ willin’ hands,
And you sall ha’e my briests like stars,
My limbs like willow wands,
And on my lips ye’ll heed nae mair,And in my hair forget,The seed o’ a’ the men that inMy virgin womb ha’e met....
And on my lips ye’ll heed nae mair,
And in my hair forget,
The seed o’ a’ the men that in
My virgin womb ha’e met....
Millions o’ wimmen bring forth in painMillions o’ bairns that are no’ worth ha’en.
Millions o’ wimmen bring forth in pain
Millions o’ bairns that are no’ worth ha’en.
Wull ever a wumman be big againWi’s muckle’s a Christ? Yech, there’s nae sayin’.
Wull ever a wumman be big again
Wi’s muckle’s a Christ? Yech, there’s nae sayin’.
Gin that’s the best that you ha’e comin’,Fegs but I’m sorry for you, wumman!
Gin that’s the best that you ha’e comin’,
Fegs but I’m sorry for you, wumman!
Yet a’e thing’s certain.—Your faith is great.Whatever happens, you’ll no’ be blate!...
Yet a’e thing’s certain.—Your faith is great.
Whatever happens, you’ll no’ be blate!...
Mary lay in jizzenAs it were claith o’ gowd,But it’s in orra dudsIlka ither bairntime’s row’d.
Mary lay in jizzen
As it were claith o’ gowd,
But it’s in orra duds
Ilka ither bairntime’s row’d.
Christ had never toothick,Christ was never seeck,But Man’s a fiky bairnWi’ bellythraw, ripples, and worm-i’-the-cheek!...
Christ had never toothick,
Christ was never seeck,
But Man’s a fiky bairn
Wi’ bellythraw, ripples, and worm-i’-the-cheek!...
Dae what ye wull ye canna parryThis skeleton-at-the-feast that through the starryMaze o’ the warld’s intoxicatin’ soireeClaughts ye, as micht at an affrontit queanA bastard wean!
Dae what ye wull ye canna parry
This skeleton-at-the-feast that through the starry
Maze o’ the warld’s intoxicatin’ soiree
Claughts ye, as micht at an affrontit quean
A bastard wean!
Prood mune, ye needna thring your shouder there,And at your puir get like a snawstorm stare,It’s yours—there’s nae denyin’t—and I’m shairYou’d no’ enjoy the evenin’ much the lessGin you’d but openly confess!
Prood mune, ye needna thring your shouder there,
And at your puir get like a snawstorm stare,
It’s yours—there’s nae denyin’t—and I’m shair
You’d no’ enjoy the evenin’ much the less
Gin you’d but openly confess!
Dod! It’s an eaten and a spewed-like thing,Fell like a little-bodies’ changeling,And it’s nae credit t’ye that you s’ud bringThe like to life—yet, gi’en a mither’s love,—Hee, hee!—wha kens hoo’t micht improve?...
Dod! It’s an eaten and a spewed-like thing,
Fell like a little-bodies’ changeling,
And it’s nae credit t’ye that you s’ud bring
The like to life—yet, gi’en a mither’s love,
—Hee, hee!—wha kens hoo’t micht improve?...
Or is this Heaven, this yalla licht,And I the aft’rins o’ the Earth,Or sic’s in this wanchancy timeMay weel fin’ sudden birth?
Or is this Heaven, this yalla licht,
And I the aft’rins o’ the Earth,
Or sic’s in this wanchancy time
May weel fin’ sudden birth?
The roots that wi’ the worms competeHauf-publish me upon the air.The struggle that divides me stillIs seen fu’ plainly there.
The roots that wi’ the worms compete
Hauf-publish me upon the air.
The struggle that divides me still
Is seen fu’ plainly there.
The thistle’s shank scarce holes the grun’,My grave’ll spare nae mair I doot.—The crack’s fu’ wide; the shank’s fu’ strang;A’ that I was is oot.
The thistle’s shank scarce holes the grun’,
My grave’ll spare nae mair I doot.
—The crack’s fu’ wide; the shank’s fu’ strang;
A’ that I was is oot.
My knots o’ nerves that struggled sairAre weel reflected in the herb;My crookit instincts were like this,As sterile and acerb.
My knots o’ nerves that struggled sair
Are weel reflected in the herb;
My crookit instincts were like this,
As sterile and acerb.
My self-tormented spirit tookThe shape repeated in the thistle;Sma’ beauty jouked my rawny banesAnd maze o’ gristle.
My self-tormented spirit took
The shape repeated in the thistle;
Sma’ beauty jouked my rawny banes
And maze o’ gristle.
I seek nae peety, Paraclete,And, fegs, I think the joke is rich—Pairt soul, pairt skeleton’s come up;They kentna which was which!...
I seek nae peety, Paraclete,
And, fegs, I think the joke is rich
—Pairt soul, pairt skeleton’s come up;
They kentna which was which!...
Thou Daith in which my lifeSae vain a thing can seem,Frae whatna source d’ye borrowYour devastatin’ gleam?
Thou Daith in which my life
Sae vain a thing can seem,
Frae whatna source d’ye borrow
Your devastatin’ gleam?
Nae doot that hidden sun’Ud look fu’ wae ana’,Gin I could see it in the lichtThat frae the Earth you draw!...
Nae doot that hidden sun
’Ud look fu’ wae ana’,
Gin I could see it in the licht
That frae the Earth you draw!...
Shudderin’ thistle, gi’e owre, gi’e owre!A’body’s gi’en in to the facts o’ life;The impossible truth’ll triumph at last,And mock your strife.
Shudderin’ thistle, gi’e owre, gi’e owre!
A’body’s gi’en in to the facts o’ life;
The impossible truth’ll triumph at last,
And mock your strife.
Your sallow leafs can never thraw,Wi’ a’ their oorie shakin’,Ae doot into the hert o’ lifeThat it may be mistak’n....
Your sallow leafs can never thraw,
Wi’ a’ their oorie shakin’,
Ae doot into the hert o’ life
That it may be mistak’n....
O Scotland isThebarren fig.Up, carles, upAnd roond it jig.
O Scotland is
Thebarren fig.
Up, carles, up
And roond it jig.
Auld Moses tookA dry stick andInstantly itFloo’ered in his hand.
Auld Moses took
A dry stick and
Instantly it
Floo’ered in his hand.
Pu’ Scotland up,And wha can sayIt winna budAnd blossom tae.
Pu’ Scotland up,
And wha can say
It winna bud
And blossom tae.
A miracle’sOor only chance.Up, carles, upAnd let us dance!
A miracle’s
Oor only chance.
Up, carles, up
And let us dance!
Puir Burns, wha’s bouquet like a shot kail blaws—Will this rouch sicht no’ gi’e the orchids pause?The Gairdens o’ the Muses may be braw,But nane like oors can breenge and eat ana’!
Puir Burns, wha’s bouquet like a shot kail blaws
—Will this rouch sicht no’ gi’e the orchids pause?
The Gairdens o’ the Muses may be braw,
But nane like oors can breenge and eat ana’!
And owre the kailyaird-wa’ Dunbar they’ve flung,And a’ their countrymen that e’er ha’e sungFor ither than ploomen’s lugs or to enrichenPlots on Parnassus set apairt for kitchen.
And owre the kailyaird-wa’ Dunbar they’ve flung,
And a’ their countrymen that e’er ha’e sung
For ither than ploomen’s lugs or to enrichen
Plots on Parnassus set apairt for kitchen.
Ploomen and ploomen’s wives—shades o’ the ManseMay weel be at the heid o’ sic a dance,As through the polish’t ha’s o’ Europe leadsThe rout o’ bagpipes, haggis, and sheep’s heids!
Ploomen and ploomen’s wives—shades o’ the Manse
May weel be at the heid o’ sic a dance,
As through the polish’t ha’s o’ Europe leads
The rout o’ bagpipes, haggis, and sheep’s heids!
The vandal Scot! Frae Branksome’s deidly barrowI struggle yet to free a’e winsome marrow,To show what Scotland micht ha’e hed insteadO’ this preposterous Presbyterian breed.
The vandal Scot! Frae Branksome’s deidly barrow
I struggle yet to free a’e winsome marrow,
To show what Scotland micht ha’e hed instead
O’ this preposterous Presbyterian breed.
(Gin Glesca folk are tired o’ Hengler,And still need breid and circuses, there’s Spengler,Or gin ye s’ud need mair than ane to teach ye,Then learn frae Dostoevski and frae Nietzsche.
(Gin Glesca folk are tired o’ Hengler,
And still need breid and circuses, there’s Spengler,
Or gin ye s’ud need mair than ane to teach ye,
Then learn frae Dostoevski and frae Nietzsche.
And let the lesson be—to be yersel’s,Ye needna fash gin it’s to be ocht else.To be yersel’s—and to mak’ that worth bein’.Nae harder job to mortals has been gi’en.
And let the lesson be—to be yersel’s,
Ye needna fash gin it’s to be ocht else.
To be yersel’s—and to mak’ that worth bein’.
Nae harder job to mortals has been gi’en.
To save your souls fu’ mony o’ ye are fain,But de’il a dizzen to mak’ it worth the daein’.I widna gi’e five meenits wi’ DunbarFor a’ the millions o’ ye as ye are).
To save your souls fu’ mony o’ ye are fain,
But de’il a dizzen to mak’ it worth the daein’.
I widna gi’e five meenits wi’ Dunbar
For a’ the millions o’ ye as ye are).
I micht ha’e been contentit wi’ the RoseGin I’d had ony reason to supposeThat what the English dae can e’er mak’ guidFor what Scots dinna—and first and foremaist should.
I micht ha’e been contentit wi’ the Rose
Gin I’d had ony reason to suppose
That what the English dae can e’er mak’ guid
For what Scots dinna—and first and foremaist should.
I micht ha’e been contentit—gin the feckO’ my ain folk had grovelled wi’ less respec’,But their obsequious devotionMade it for me a criminal emotion.
I micht ha’e been contentit—gin the feck
O’ my ain folk had grovelled wi’ less respec’,
But their obsequious devotion
Made it for me a criminal emotion.
I micht ha’e been contentit—ere I sawThat there were fields on which it couldna draw,(While strang-er roots ran under’t) and a’e threidO’t drew frae Scotland a’ that it could need,
I micht ha’e been contentit—ere I saw
That there were fields on which it couldna draw,
(While strang-er roots ran under’t) and a’e threid
O’t drew frae Scotland a’ that it could need,
And left the maist o’ Scotland fallow(Save for the patch on which the kail-blades wallow),And saw hoo ither countries’ genius drewElements like mine that in a rose ne’er grew....
And left the maist o’ Scotland fallow
(Save for the patch on which the kail-blades wallow),
And saw hoo ither countries’ genius drew
Elements like mine that in a rose ne’er grew....
Gin the threid haud’n us to the rose were snapt,There’s no’ a’e petal o’t that ’ud be clapt.A’ Scotland gi’es gangs but to jags or stalk,The bloom is English—and ’ud ken nae lack!...
Gin the threid haud’n us to the rose were snapt,
There’s no’ a’e petal o’t that ’ud be clapt.
A’ Scotland gi’es gangs but to jags or stalk,
The bloom is English—and ’ud ken nae lack!...
O drumlie clood o’ crudity and cant,Obliteratin’ as the Easter roukThat rows up frae the howes and droons the heichs,And turns the country to a faceless spook.
O drumlie clood o’ crudity and cant,
Obliteratin’ as the Easter rouk
That rows up frae the howes and droons the heichs,
And turns the country to a faceless spook.
Like blurry shapes o’ landmarks in the haarThe bonny idiosyncratic place-names loom,Clues to the vieve and maikless life that’s lainHappit for centuries in an alien gloom....
Like blurry shapes o’ landmarks in the haar
The bonny idiosyncratic place-names loom,
Clues to the vieve and maikless life that’s lain
Happit for centuries in an alien gloom....
Eneuch! For noo I’m in the mood,Scotland, responsive to my thoughts,Lichts mile by mile, as my ain nerves,Frae Maidenheid to John o’ Groats!
Eneuch! For noo I’m in the mood,
Scotland, responsive to my thoughts,
Lichts mile by mile, as my ain nerves,
Frae Maidenheid to John o’ Groats!
What are prophets and priests and kings,What’s ocht to the people o’ Scotland?Speak—and Cruivie’ll goam at you,Gilsanquhar jalouse you’re dottlin!
What are prophets and priests and kings,
What’s ocht to the people o’ Scotland?
Speak—and Cruivie’ll goam at you,
Gilsanquhar jalouse you’re dottlin!
And Edinburgh and GlasgowAre like ploomen in a pub.They want to hear o’ naethingBut their ain foul hubbub....
And Edinburgh and Glasgow
Are like ploomen in a pub.
They want to hear o’ naething
But their ain foul hubbub....
The fules are richt; an extra thochtIs neither here nor there.Oor lives may differ as they like—The self-same fate we share.
The fules are richt; an extra thocht
Is neither here nor there.
Oor lives may differ as they like
—The self-same fate we share.
And whiles I wish I’d nae mair senseThan Cruivie and Gilsanquhar,And envy their rude health and curseMy gnawin’ canker.
And whiles I wish I’d nae mair sense
Than Cruivie and Gilsanquhar,
And envy their rude health and curse
My gnawin’ canker.
Guid sakes, ye dinna need to passOny exam. to dee—Daith canna tell a common flechFrae a performin’ flea!...
Guid sakes, ye dinna need to pass
Ony exam. to dee
—Daith canna tell a common flech
Frae a performin’ flea!...
It sets you weel to slaverTo let sic gaadies fa’—The mune’s the muckle white whaleI seek in vain to kaa!
It sets you weel to slaver
To let sic gaadies fa’
—The mune’s the muckle white whale
I seek in vain to kaa!
The Earth’s my mastless samyn,The thistle my ruined sail.—Le’e go as you maun in the end,And droon in your plumm o’ ale!...
The Earth’s my mastless samyn,
The thistle my ruined sail.
—Le’e go as you maun in the end,
And droon in your plumm o’ ale!...
Clear keltie aff an’ fill againWithoot corneigh bein’ cryit,The drink’s aye best that follows a drink.Clear keltie aff and try it.
Clear keltie aff an’ fill again
Withoot corneigh bein’ cryit,
The drink’s aye best that follows a drink.
Clear keltie aff and try it.
Be’t whisky gill or penny wheep,Or ony ither lotion,We ’bood to ha’e a thimblefu’ first,And syne we’ll toom an ocean!...
Be’t whisky gill or penny wheep,
Or ony ither lotion,
We ’bood to ha’e a thimblefu’ first,
And syne we’ll toom an ocean!...
“To Luna at the Craidle-and-CoffinTo sof’n her hert if owt can sof’n:—
“To Luna at the Craidle-and-Coffin
To sof’n her hert if owt can sof’n:—
Auld bag o’ tricks, ye needna comeAnd think to stap me in your womb.
Auld bag o’ tricks, ye needna come
And think to stap me in your womb.
You needna fash to rax and strain.Carline, I’llnobe born again
You needna fash to rax and strain.
Carline, I’llnobe born again
In ony brat you can produce.Carline, gi’e owre—O what’s the use?
In ony brat you can produce.
Carline, gi’e owre—O what’s the use?
You pay nae heed but plop me in,Syne shove me oot, and winna be din,
You pay nae heed but plop me in,
Syne shove me oot, and winna be din,
—Owre and owre, the same auld trick,Cratur withoot climateric!...
—Owre and owre, the same auld trick,
Cratur withoot climateric!...
“Noo Cutty Sark’s tint that ana,And dances in her skin—Ha! Ha!
“Noo Cutty Sark’s tint that ana,
And dances in her skin—Ha! Ha!
I canna ride awa’ like Tam,But e’en maun bide juist whaur I am.
I canna ride awa’ like Tam,
But e’en maun bide juist whaur I am.
I canna ride—and gin I could,I’d sune be sorry I hedna stood,
I canna ride—and gin I could,
I’d sune be sorry I hedna stood,
For less than a’ there is to see’ll never be owre muckle for me.
For less than a’ there is to see
’ll never be owre muckle for me.
Cutty, gin you’ve mair to strip,Aff wi’t, lass—and let it rip!”...
Cutty, gin you’ve mair to strip,
Aff wi’t, lass—and let it rip!”...
Ilka pleesure I can ha’eEnds like a dram ta’en yesterday.
Ilka pleesure I can ha’e
Ends like a dram ta’en yesterday.
And tho’ to ha’e it I am lorn—What better ’ud I be the morn?...
And tho’ to ha’e it I am lorn
—What better ’ud I be the morn?...
My belly on the gantrees there,The spigot frae my cullage,And wow but how the fizzin’ yillIn spilth increased the ullage!
My belly on the gantrees there,
The spigot frae my cullage,
And wow but how the fizzin’ yill
In spilth increased the ullage!
I was an anxious barrel, lad,When first they tapped my bung.They whistled me up, yet thro’ the liftMy freaths like rainbows swung.
I was an anxious barrel, lad,
When first they tapped my bung.
They whistled me up, yet thro’ the lift
My freaths like rainbows swung.
Waesucks, a pride for ony bar,The boast o’ barleyhood,Like Noah’s Ark abune the faemMaun float, a gantin’ cude,
Waesucks, a pride for ony bar,
The boast o’ barleyhood,
Like Noah’s Ark abune the faem
Maun float, a gantin’ cude,
For I was thrawn fu’ cock owre sune,And wi’ a single jawI made the pub a blindin’ swelth,And how’d the warld awa’!...
For I was thrawn fu’ cock owre sune,
And wi’ a single jaw
I made the pub a blindin’ swelth,
And how’d the warld awa’!...
What forest worn to the back-hauf’s this,What Eden brocht doon to a bean-swaup?The thistle’s to earth as the manIn the mune’s to the mune, puir chap.
What forest worn to the back-hauf’s this,
What Eden brocht doon to a bean-swaup?
The thistle’s to earth as the man
In the mune’s to the mune, puir chap.
The haill warld’s barkin’ and fleein’,And this is its echo and aiker,A soond that arrears in my lugHerrin’-banein’ back to its maker,
The haill warld’s barkin’ and fleein’,
And this is its echo and aiker,
A soond that arrears in my lug
Herrin’-banein’ back to its maker,
A swaw like a flaw in a jewelOrnadryv[7]jaloused in a man,Or Creation unbiggit againTo the draucht wi’ which it began....
A swaw like a flaw in a jewel
Ornadryv[7]jaloused in a man,
Or Creation unbiggit again
To the draucht wi’ which it began....
Abordage o’ this toom houk’s nae mowse.It munks and’s ill to lay haud o’,As gin a man ettled to rideOn the shouders o’ his ain shadow.
Abordage o’ this toom houk’s nae mowse.
It munks and’s ill to lay haud o’,
As gin a man ettled to ride
On the shouders o’ his ain shadow.
I canna biel’t; tho’ steekin’ an e’eTither’s munkie wi’ munebeam for knool in’t,For there’s nae sta’-tree and the brute’s awa’Wi’ me kinkin’ like foudrie ahint....
I canna biel’t; tho’ steekin’ an e’e
Tither’s munkie wi’ munebeam for knool in’t,
For there’s nae sta’-tree and the brute’s awa’
Wi’ me kinkin’ like foudrie ahint....
Sae Eternity’ll buff nor styeFor Time, and shies at a touch, man;Yet aye in a belth o’ ThochtComes alist like the Fleein’ Dutchman....
Sae Eternity’ll buff nor stye
For Time, and shies at a touch, man;
Yet aye in a belth o’ Thocht
Comes alist like the Fleein’ Dutchman....
As the worms’ll breed in my corpse untilIt’s like a rice-puddin’, the thistleHas made an eel-ark o’ the liftWhaur elvers like skirl-in-the-pan sizzle,
As the worms’ll breed in my corpse until
It’s like a rice-puddin’, the thistle
Has made an eel-ark o’ the lift
Whaur elvers like skirl-in-the-pan sizzle,
Like a thunder-plump on the sunlicht,Or the slounge o’ daith on my dreams,Or as to a fair forfochen manA breedin’ wife’s beddiness seems,
Like a thunder-plump on the sunlicht,
Or the slounge o’ daith on my dreams,
Or as to a fair forfochen man
A breedin’ wife’s beddiness seems,
Saragossa Sea, St Vitus’ Dance,Acafardin a brain’s despite,Or lunacy that thinks a’ elseIs loony—and is dootless richt!...
Saragossa Sea, St Vitus’ Dance,
Acafardin a brain’s despite,
Or lunacy that thinks a’ else
Is loony—and is dootless richt!...
Gin my thochts that circle like hobby-horses’Udna loosen to nightmares I’d sleep;For nocht but a chowed core’s left whaur Jerusalem layLike aipples in a heap!...
Gin my thochts that circle like hobby-horses
’Udna loosen to nightmares I’d sleep;
For nocht but a chowed core’s left whaur Jerusalem lay
Like aipples in a heap!...
It’s a queer thing to tryst wi’ a wummanWhen the boss o’ her body’s gane,And her banes in the wund as she comesDirl like a raff o’ rain.
It’s a queer thing to tryst wi’ a wumman
When the boss o’ her body’s gane,
And her banes in the wund as she comes
Dirl like a raff o’ rain.
It’s a queer thing to tryst wi’ a wummanWhen her ghaist frae abuneheid keeks,And you see in the licht o’t that a’You ha’e o’r’s the cleiks....
It’s a queer thing to tryst wi’ a wumman
When her ghaist frae abuneheid keeks,
And you see in the licht o’t that a’
You ha’e o’r’s the cleiks....
What forest worn to the backhauf’s this,What Eden brocht doon to a beanswaup?—A’ the ferlies o’ natur’ spring frae the earth,And into’t again maun drap.
What forest worn to the backhauf’s this,
What Eden brocht doon to a beanswaup?
—A’ the ferlies o’ natur’ spring frae the earth,
And into’t again maun drap.
Animals, vegetables, what are they a’But as thochts that a man has ha’en?And Earth sall be like a toom skull syne.—Whaur’ll its thochts be then?...
Animals, vegetables, what are they a’
But as thochts that a man has ha’en?
And Earth sall be like a toom skull syne.
—Whaur’ll its thochts be then?...
The munelicht is my knowledge o’ mysel’,Mysel’ the thistle in the munelicht seen,And hauf my shape has fund itsel’ in theeAnd hauf my knowledge in your piercin’ een.
The munelicht is my knowledge o’ mysel’,
Mysel’ the thistle in the munelicht seen,
And hauf my shape has fund itsel’ in thee
And hauf my knowledge in your piercin’ een.
E’en as the munelicht’s borrowed frae the sunI ha’e my knowledge o’ mysel’ frae thee,And much that nane but thee can e’er mak’ clear,Save my licht’s frae the source, is dark to me.
E’en as the munelicht’s borrowed frae the sun
I ha’e my knowledge o’ mysel’ frae thee,
And much that nane but thee can e’er mak’ clear,
Save my licht’s frae the source, is dark to me.
Your acid tongue, vieve lauchter, and hawk’s een,And bluid that drobs like haill to quicken me,Can turn the mid-day black or midnicht bricht,Lowse me frae licht or eke frae darkness free.
Your acid tongue, vieve lauchter, and hawk’s een,
And bluid that drobs like haill to quicken me,
Can turn the mid-day black or midnicht bricht,
Lowse me frae licht or eke frae darkness free.
Bite into me forever mair and liftMe clear o’ chaos in a great reliefTill, like this thistle in the munelicht growin’,I brak in roses owre a hedge o’ grief....
Bite into me forever mair and lift
Me clear o’ chaos in a great relief
Till, like this thistle in the munelicht growin’,
I brak in roses owre a hedge o’ grief....
I am like Burns, and ony wenchCan ser’ me for a time.Licht’s in them a’—in some a sun,In some the merest skime.
I am like Burns, and ony wench
Can ser’ me for a time.
Licht’s in them a’—in some a sun,
In some the merest skime.
I’m no’ like Burns, and weel I ken,Tho’ ony wench can ser’,It’s no’ through mony but through yinThat ony man wuns fer....
I’m no’ like Burns, and weel I ken,
Tho’ ony wench can ser’,
It’s no’ through mony but through yin
That ony man wuns fer....
I weddit thee frae fause love, lass,To free thee and to free mysel’;But man and wumman tied for lifeTrue can be and truth can tell.
I weddit thee frae fause love, lass,
To free thee and to free mysel’;
But man and wumman tied for life
True can be and truth can tell.
Pit ony couple in a knotThey canna lowse and needna try,And mair o’ love at last they’ll ken—If ocht!—than joy’ll alane descry.
Pit ony couple in a knot
They canna lowse and needna try,
And mair o’ love at last they’ll ken
—If ocht!—than joy’ll alane descry.
For them as for the beasts, my wife,A’s fer frae dune when pleesure’s owre,And coontless difficulties garIlk hert discover a’ its power.
For them as for the beasts, my wife,
A’s fer frae dune when pleesure’s owre,
And coontless difficulties gar
Ilk hert discover a’ its power.
I dinna say that bairns alaneAre true love’s task—a sairer taskIs aiblins to create oorselsAs we can be—it’s that I ask.
I dinna say that bairns alane
Are true love’s task—a sairer task
Is aiblins to create oorsels
As we can be—it’s that I ask.
Create oorsels, syne bairns, syne race.Sae on the cod I see’t in youWi’ Maidenkirk to John o’ GroatsThe bosom that you draw me to.
Create oorsels, syne bairns, syne race.
Sae on the cod I see’t in you
Wi’ Maidenkirk to John o’ Groats
The bosom that you draw me to.
And nae Scot wi’ a wumman lies,But I am he and ken as ’twereA stage I’ve passed as he maun pass’t,Gin he grows up, his way wi’ her!...
And nae Scot wi’ a wumman lies,
But I am he and ken as ’twere
A stage I’ve passed as he maun pass’t,
Gin he grows up, his way wi’ her!...
A’thing wi’ which a manCan intromit’s a wumman,And can, and s’ud, becomeAs intimate and human.
A’thing wi’ which a man
Can intromit’s a wumman,
And can, and s’ud, become
As intimate and human.
And Jean’s nae mair my wifeThan whisky is at times,Or munelicht or a thistleOr kittle thochts or rhymes.
And Jean’s nae mair my wife
Than whisky is at times,
Or munelicht or a thistle
Or kittle thochts or rhymes.
He’s no’ a man ava’,And lacks a proper pride,Gin less than a’ the warldCan ser’ him for a bride!...
He’s no’ a man ava’,
And lacks a proper pride,
Gin less than a’ the warld
Can ser’ him for a bride!...
Use, then, my lust for whisky and for thee,Your function but to be and let me beAnd see and let me see.
Use, then, my lust for whisky and for thee,
Your function but to be and let me be
And see and let me see.
If in a lesser licht I grope my way,Or use’t for ends that need your different rayWhelm’t in superior day.
If in a lesser licht I grope my way,
Or use’t for ends that need your different ray
Whelm’t in superior day.
Then aye increase and ne’er withdraw your licht.—Gin it shows either o’s in hideous plicht,What gain to turn’t to nicht?
Then aye increase and ne’er withdraw your licht.
—Gin it shows either o’s in hideous plicht,
What gain to turn’t to nicht?
Whisky mak’s Heaven or Hell and whiles mells baith,Disease is but the privy torch o’ Daith,—But sex reveals life, faith!
Whisky mak’s Heaven or Hell and whiles mells baith,
Disease is but the privy torch o’ Daith,
—But sex reveals life, faith!
I need them a’ and maun be aye at strife.Daith and ayont are nocht but pairts o’ life.—Then be life’s licht, my wife!...
I need them a’ and maun be aye at strife.
Daith and ayont are nocht but pairts o’ life.
—Then be life’s licht, my wife!...
Love often wuns freeIn lust to be strangled,Or love, o’ lust free,In law’s sairly tangled.
Love often wuns free
In lust to be strangled,
Or love, o’ lust free,
In law’s sairly tangled.
And it’s ill to tell whetherLaw or lust is to blameWhen love’s chokit up—It comes a’ to the same.
And it’s ill to tell whether
Law or lust is to blame
When love’s chokit up
—It comes a’ to the same.
In this sorry growthWhatna beauty is tintThat freed o’t micht findA waur fate than is in’t?...
In this sorry growth
Whatna beauty is tint
That freed o’t micht find
A waur fate than is in’t?...
Yank oot your orra boughs, my hert!
Yank oot your orra boughs, my hert!
God gied man speech and speech created thocht,He gied man speech but to the Scots gied nochtBarrin’ this clytach that they’ve never brochtTo onything but sic a Blottie OAs some bairn’s copybook micht show,
God gied man speech and speech created thocht,
He gied man speech but to the Scots gied nocht
Barrin’ this clytach that they’ve never brocht
To onything but sic a Blottie O
As some bairn’s copybook micht show,
A spook o’ soond that frae the unkent graveIn which oor nation lies loups up to waveSic leprous chuns as tatties haveThat cellar-boond send spindles gropin’Towards ony hole that’s open,
A spook o’ soond that frae the unkent grave
In which oor nation lies loups up to wave
Sic leprous chuns as tatties have
That cellar-boond send spindles gropin’
Towards ony hole that’s open,
Like waesome fingers in the dark that thinkThey still may widen the ane and only chinkThat e’er has gi’en mankind a blinkO’ Hope—tho’ ev’n in that puir lichtThey s’ud ha’e seen their hopeless plicht.
Like waesome fingers in the dark that think
They still may widen the ane and only chink
That e’er has gi’en mankind a blink
O’ Hope—tho’ ev’n in that puir licht
They s’ud ha’e seen their hopeless plicht.
This puir relation o’ my topplin’ mood,This country cousin, streak o’ churl-bluid,This hopeless airgh ’twixt a’ we can and should,This Past that like Astarte’s sting I feel,This arrow in Achilles’ heel.
This puir relation o’ my topplin’ mood,
This country cousin, streak o’ churl-bluid,
This hopeless airgh ’twixt a’ we can and should,
This Past that like Astarte’s sting I feel,
This arrow in Achilles’ heel.
Yank oot your orra boughs, my hert!
Yank oot your orra boughs, my hert!
Mebbe we’re in a vicious circle cast,Mebbe there’s limits we can ne’er get past,Mebbe we’re sentrices that at the lastAre flung aside, and no’ the pillars and propsO’ Heaven foraye as in oor hopes.
Mebbe we’re in a vicious circle cast,
Mebbe there’s limits we can ne’er get past,
Mebbe we’re sentrices that at the last
Are flung aside, and no’ the pillars and props
O’ Heaven foraye as in oor hopes.
Oor growth at least nae steady progress shows,Genius in mankind like an antrin roseAbune a jungly waste o’ effort grows,But to Man’s purpose it mak’s little odds,And seems irrelevant to God’s....
Oor growth at least nae steady progress shows,
Genius in mankind like an antrin rose
Abune a jungly waste o’ effort grows,
But to Man’s purpose it mak’s little odds,
And seems irrelevant to God’s....