Chapter 7

Eneuch? Then here you are. Here’s the haill story.Life’s connached shapes too’er up in croons o’ glory,Perpetuatin’, natheless, in their goryColour the endless sacrifice and painThat to their makin’s gane.The roses like the saints in Heaven treidTriumphant owre the agonies o’ their breed,And wag fu’ mony a celestial heidAbune the thorter-ills o’ leaf and prickIn which they ken the feck maun stick.Yank oot your orra boughs, my hert!A mongrel growth, jumble o’ disproportions,Whirlin’ in its incredible contortions,Or wad-be client that an auld whore shuns,Wardin’ her wizened orange o’ a bosomFrae importunities sae gruesome,Or new diversion o’ the hormonesMair fond o’ procreation than the Mormons,And fetchin’ like a devastatin’ storm on’sA’ the uncouth dilemmas o’ oor natur’Objectified in vegetable maitter.Yank oot your orra boughs, my hert!And heed nae mair the foolish cries that begYou slice nae mair to aff or pu’ to leg,You skitin’ duffer that gar’s a’body fleg,—What tho’ you ding the haill warld oot o’ jointWi’ a skier to cover-point!Yank oot your orra boughs, my hert!Therewasa danger—and it’s weel I see’t—Had brocht ye like Mallarmé to defeat:—“Mon doute, amas de nuit ancienne s’achèveEn maint rameau subtil, qui, demeuré les vraisBois même, prouve, hélas! que bien seul je m’offraisPour triomphe le faute idéale des roses.”[8]Yank oot your orra boughs, my hert!...I love to muse upon the skill that gangsTo mak’ the simplest thing that Earth displays,The eident life that ilka atom thrangs,And uses it in the appointit ways,And a’ the endless brain that nocht escapesThat myriad moves them to inimitable shapes.Nor to their customed form nor ony itherNew to Creation, by man’s cleverest mind,A’ needfu’ particles first brocht thegither,Could they wi’ timeless labour be combined.There’s nocht that Science yet’s begood to seeIn hauf its deemless detail or its destiny.Oor een gi’e answers based on pairt-seen factsThat beg a’ questions, to ebb minds’ content,But hoo a’e feature or the neist attracts,Wi’ millions mair unseen, wha kens what’s meantBy human brains and to what ends may tell—For naething’s seen or kent that’s near a thing itsel’!Let whasae vaunts his knowledge then and syneSets up a God and kensHispurpose taeTell me what’s gart a’e strain o’ maitter twineIn sic an extraordinary way,And what God’s purpose wi’ the Thistle is—I’ll aiblins ken what he and his God’s worth by this.I’ve watched it lang and hard until I ha’eA certain symp’thy wi’ its orra waysAnd pride in its success, as weel I may,In growin’ exactly as its instinct says,Save in sae fer as thwarts o’ weather or grun’Or man or ither foes ha’e’ts aims perchance fordone.But I can form nae notion o’ the spiritThat gars it tak’ the difficult shape it does,Nor judge the merit yet or the demeritO’ this detail or that sae fer as it goesT’ advance the cause that gied it sic a guiseAs maun ha’e pleased its Maker wi’ a gey surprise.The craft that hit upon the reishlin’ stalk,Wi’ts gausty leafs and a’ its datchie jags,And spired it syne in seely flooers to brakLike sudden lauchter owre its fousome ragsJouks me, sardonic lover, in the routhO’ contrairies that jostle in this dumfoondrin’ growth.What strength ’t’ud need to pit its roses oot,Or double them in number or in size,He canna tell wha canna plumb the root,And learn what’s gar’t its present state arise,And what the limits are that ha’e been putTo change in thistles, and why—and what a change ’ud boot....I saw a rose come loupin’ oot[9]Frae a camsteerie plant.O wha’d ha’e thocht yon puir stock hadSic an inhabitant?For centuries it ran to waste,Wi’ pin-heid flooers at times.O’ts hidden hert o’ beauty theyWere but the merest skimes.Yet while it ran to wud and thorns,The feckless growth was seekin’Some airt to cheenge its life untilA’ in a rose was beekin’.“Is there nae way in which my lifeCan mair to flooerin’ come,And bring its waste on shank and jagsDoon to a minimum?“It’s hard to struggle as I maunFor scrunts o’ blooms like mine,While blossom covers ither plantsAs by a knack divine.“What hinders me unless I lackSome needfu’ discipline?—I wis I’ll bring my orra lifeTo beauty or I’m din!”Sae ran the thocht that hid ahintThe thistle’s ugsome guise,“I’ll brak’ the habit o’ my lifeA worthier to devise.”“My nobler instincts sall nae mairThis contrair shape be gi’en.I sall nae mair consent to liveA life no’ fit to be seen.”Sae ran the thocht that hid ahintThe thistle’s ugsome guise,Till a’ at aince a rose loupt out—I watched it wi’ surprise.A rose loupt oot and grew, untilIt was ten times the sizeO’ ony rose the thistle aforeHad heistit to the skies.And still it grew till a’ the bussWas hidden in its flame.I never saw sae braw a floo’erAs yon thrawn stock became.And still it grew until it seemedThe haill braid earth had turnedA reid reid rose that in the liftLike a ball o’ fire burned.The waefu’ clay was fire aince mair,As Earth had been resumedInto God’s mind, frae which sae langTo grugous state ’twas doomed.Syne the rose shrivelled suddenlyAs a balloon is burst;The thistle was a ghaistly stick,As gin it had been curst.Was it the ancient vicious swayImposed itsel’ again,Or nerve owre weak for new empriseThat made the effort vain,A coward strain in that lorn growthThat wrocht the sorry trick?—The thistle like a rocket soaredAnd cam’ doon like the stick.Like grieshuckle the roses glint,The leafs like farles hing,As roond a hopeless sacrificeEarth draws its barren ring.The dream o’ beauty’s dernin’ yetAhint the ugsome shape.—Vain dream that in a pinheid hereAnd there can e’er escape!The vices that defeat the dreamAre in the plant itsel’,And till they’re purged its virtues maunIn pain and misery dwell.Let Deils rejoice to see the waste,The fond hope brocht to nocht.The thistle in their een is asA favourite lust they’re wrocht.The orderin’ o’ the thistle meansNae richtin’ o’t to them.Its loss they ca’ a law, its thornsA fule’s fit diadem.And still the idiot nails itsel’To its ain crucifix,While here a rose and there a roseJaups oot abune the pricks.Like connoisseurs the Deils gang roondAnd praise its attitude,Till on the Cross the silly ChristTo fidge fu’ fain’s begood!Like connoisseurs the Deils gang roondWi’ ready platitude.It’s no’ sae dear as vinegar,And every bit as good!The bitter taste is on my tongue,I chowl my chafts, and pray“Let God forsake me noo and no’Staund connoisseur-like tae!”...The language that but sparely flooersAnd maistly gangs to weed;The thocht o’ Christ and CalvaryAye liddenin’ in my heid;And a’ the dour provincial thochtThat merks the Scottish breed—These are the thistle’s characters,To argie there’s nae need.Hoo weel my verse embodiesThe thistle you can read!—But will a Scotsman neverFrae this vile growth be freed?...O ilka man alive is likeA quart that’s squeezed into a pint(A maist unScottish-like affair!)Or like the little maid that showedMe into a still sma’er room.What use to let a sunrise fadeTo ha’e anither like’t the morn,Or let a generation passThat ane nae better may succeed,Or wi’ a’ Time’s machineryKeep naething new aneth the sun,Or change things oot o’ kennin’ thatThey may be a’ the mair the same?The thistle in the wund dissolvesIn lichtnin’s as shook foil gi’es wayIn sudden splendours, or the fleshAt Daith lets slip the infinite soul;And syne it’s like a sunrise tintIn grey o’ day, or love and life,That in a cloody blash o’ spermUndae the warld to big’t again,Or like a pickled foetus thatNae man feels ocht in common wi’—But micht as easily ha’ been!Or like a corpse a soul set freeScunners to think it tenanted—And little recks that but for itIt never micht ha’ been at a’,Like love frae lust and God frae man!The wasted seam that dries like stairchAnd pooders aff, that micht ha’ beenA warld o’ men and syne o’ Gods;The grey that haunts the vievest green;The wrang side o’ the noblest sceneWe ne’er can whummle to oor een,As ’twere the hinderpairts o’ GodHis face aye turned the opposite road,Or’s neth the flooers the drumlie clodsFrae which they come at sicna odds,As a’ Earth’s magic frae a spirt,In shame and secrecy, o’ dirt!Then shak’ nae mair in silly life,Nor stand impossible as Daith,Incredible as a’thing isInside or oot owre closely scanned.As mithers aften think the warldO’ bairns that ha’e nae end or object,Or lovers think their sweethearts madeYince-yirn—wha haena waled the lave,Maikless—when they are naebody,Or men o’ ilka sort and kindAre prood o’ thochts they ca’ their ain,That nameless millions had aforeAnd nameless millions yet’ll ha’e,And that were never worth the ha’en,Or Cruivie’s “latest” story orGilsanquhar’s vows to sign the pledge,Or’s if I thocht maist whiskywas,Or failed to coont the cheenge I got,Sae wad I be gin I rejoiced,Or didna ken my place, in thee.O stranglin’ rictus, sterile spasm,Thou stricture in the groins o’ licht,Thou ootrie gangrel frae the wildsO’ chaos fenced frae Eden yetBy the unsplinterable wa’O’ munebeams like a bleeze o’ swords!Nae chance lunge cuts the Gordian knot,Nor sall the belly find reliefIn wha’s entangled monipliesCreation like a stoppage jams,Or in whose loins the mapamoundRunkles in strawns o’ bubos whaurThe generations gravel.The soond o’ water winnin’ free,The sicht o’ licht that braks the rouk,The thocht o’ every thwart owrecomeAre in my ears and een and brain,In whom the bluid is spilt in stour,In whom a’ licht in darkness fails,In whom the mystery o’ lifeIs to a wretched weed bewrayed.But let my soul increase in me,God dwarfed to enter my puir thochtExpand to his true size again,And protoplasm’s look befitThe nature o’ its destiny,And seed and sequence be nae mairIncongruous to ane anither,And liquor packed impossiblyMak’ pint-pot an eternal well,And art be relevant to life,And poets mair than dominies yet,And ends nae langer tint in means,Nor forests hidden by their trees,Nor men be sacrificed aliveIn foonds o’ fates designed for them,Nor mansions o’ the soul stand toomTheir owners in their cellars trapped,Nor a’ a people’s genius beA rumple-fyke in Heaven’s doup,While Calvinism uses herTo breed a minister or twa!A black leaf owre a white leaf twirls,A grey leaf flauchters in atween,Sae ply my thochts aboot the stemO’ loppert slime frae which they spring.The thistle like a snawstorm drives,Or like a flicht o’ swallows lifts,Or like a swarm o’ midges hings,A plague o’ moths, a starry sky,But’s naething but a thistle yet,And still the puzzle stands unsolved.Beauty and ugliness alike,And life and daith and God and man,Are aspects o’t but nane can tellThe secret that I’d fain find ootO’ this bricht hive, this sorry weed,The tree that fills the universe,Or like a reistit herrin’ crines.Gin I was sober I micht thinkIt was like something drunk men see!The necromancy in my bluidThrough a’ the gamut cheenges meO’ dwarf and giant, foul and fair,But winna let me be mysel’—My mither’s womb that reins me stillUntil I tae can prick the witchAnd “Wumman” cry wi’ Christ at last,“Then what hast thou to do wi’ me?”The tug-o’-war is in me still,The dog-hank o’ the flesh and soul,Faither in Heaven, what gar’d ye tak’A village slut to mither me,Your mongrel o’ the fire and clay?The trollop and the Deity shareMy writhen form as tho’ I wereA picture o’ the time they hadWhen Licht rejoiced to file itsel’And Earth upshuddered like a star.A drucken hizzie gane to bedWi’ three-in-ane and ane-in-three.O fain I’d drink until I sawScotland a ferlie o’ delicht,And fain bide drunk nor ha’e’t recedeInto a shrivelled thistle syne,As when a sperklin’ tide rins oot,And leaves a wreath o’ rubbish there!Wull a’ the seas gang dry at last(As dry as I am gettin’ noo),Or wull they aye come back again,Seilfu’ as my neist drink to me,Or as the sunlicht to the mune,Or as the bonny sangs o’ men,Wha’re but puir craturs in themsels,And save when genius mak’s them drunk,As donnert as their audiences,—As dreams that mak’ a tramp a king,A madman sane to his ain mind,Or what a Scotsman thinks himsel’,Tho’ naethin’ but a thistle kyths.The mair I drink the thirstier yet,And whiles when I’m alowe wi’ booze,I’m like God’s sel’ and clad in fire,And ha’e a Pentecost like this.O wad that I could aye be fou’,And no’ come back as aye I maunTo naething but a fule that nane’Ud credit wi’ sic thochts as thae,A fule that kens they’re empty dreams!Yet but fer drink and drink’s effects,The yeast o’ God that barms in us,We micht as weel no’ be alive.It maitters not what drink is ta’en,The barley bree, ambition, love,Or Guid or Evil workin’ in’s,Sae lang’s we feel like souls set freeFrae mortal coils and speak in tonguesWe dinna ken and never wull,And find a merit in oorsels,In Cruivies and Gilsanquhars tae,And see the thistle as ocht but that!For wha o’s ha’e the thistle’s poo’erTo see we’re worthless and believe ’t?A’thing that ony man can be’sA mockery o’ his soul at last.The mair it shows’t the better, andI’d suner be a tramp than king,Lest in the pride o’ place and poo’erI e’er forgot my waesomeness.Sae to debauchery and dirt,And to disease and daith I turn,Sin’ otherwise my seemin’ worth’Ud block my view o’ what is what,And blin’ me to the ironyO’ bein’ a grocer ’neth the sun,A lawyer gin Justice ope’d her een,A pedant like an ant promoted,A parson buttonholin’ God,Or ony cratur o’ the EarthSma’-bookt to John Smith, High Street, Perth,Or sic like vulgar gaffe o’ lifeSub speciem aeternitatis—Nae void can fleg me hauf as muchAs bein’ mysel’, whate’er I am,Or, waur, bein’ onybody else.The nervous thistle’s shiverin’ likeA horse’s skin aneth a cleg,Or Northern Lichts or lustres o’A soul that Daith has fastened on,Or mornin’ efter the nicht afore.Shudderin’ thistle, gi’e owre, gi’e owre....Grey sand is churnin’ in my lugsThe munelicht flets, and gantin’ thereThe grave o’ a’ mankind’s laid bare—On Hell itsel’ the drawback rugs!Nae man can ken his hert untilThe tide o’ life uncovers it,And horror-struck he sees a pitReturnin’ life can never fill!...Thou art the facts in ilka airtThat breenge into infinity,Criss-crossed wi’ coontless ither factsNae man can follow, and o’ whichHe is himsel’ a helpless pairt,Held in their tangle as he wereA stick-nest in Ygdrasil!The less man sees the mair he isContent wi’t, but the mair he seesThe mair he kens hoo little o’A’ that there is he’ll ever see,And hoo it mak’s confusion ayeThe waur confoondit till at lastHis brain inside his heid is likeAriadne wi’ an empty pirn,Or like a birlin’ reel frae whichA whale has rived the line awa’.What better’s a forhooied nestThan skasloch scattered owre the grun’?O hard it is for man to kenHe’s no’ creation’s goal nor yetA benefitter by’t at last—A means to ends he’ll never ken,And as to michtier elementsThe slauchtered brutes he eats to himOr forms o’ life owre sma’ to seeWi’ which his heedless body swarms,And a’ man’s thocht nae mair to themThan ony moosewob to a man,His Heaven to them the blinterin’ o’A snail-trail on their closet wa’!For what’s an atom o’ a twigThat tak’s a billion to an inchTo a’ the routh o’ shoots that mak’The bygrowth o’ the Earth abootThe michty trunk o’ Space that spreidsRamel o’ licht that ha’e nae end,—The trunk wi’ centuries for rings,Comets for fruit, November shooersFor leafs that in its Autumns fa’—And Man at maist o’ sic a twigAne o’ the coontless atoms is!My sinnens and my veins are butAs muckle o’ a single shootWha’s fibre I can ne’er unwaftO’ my wife’s flesh and mither’s fleshAnd a’ the flesh o’ humankind,And revelled thrums o’ beasts and plantsAs gangs to mak’ twixt birth and daithA’e sliver for a microscope;And a’ the life o’ Earth to beCan never lift frae underneathThe shank o’ which oor destiny’s pairtAs heich’s to stand forenenst the trunkStupendous as a windlestrae!I’m under nae delusions, fegs!The whuppin’ sooker at wha’s tipOor little point o’ view appears,A midget coom o’ continentsWi’ blebs o’ oceans set, sends upThe braith o’ daith as weel as life,And we maun braird anither tipOot owre us ere we wither tae,And join the sentrice skeletonAs coral insects big their reefs.What is the tree? As fer as Man’sConcerned it disna maitterGin but a giant thistle ’tisThat spreids eternal mischief there,As I’m inclined to think.Ruthless it sends its solid growthThrough mair than he can e’er conceive,And braks his warlds abreid and rivesHis Heavens to tatters on its horns.The nature or the purpose o’tHe needna fash to spier, for heIs destined to be sune owre grownAnd hidden wi’ the parent wudThe spreidin’ boughs in darkness hap,And a’ its future life’ll beOotwith’m as he’s ootwith his banes.Juist as man’s skeleton has leftIts ancient ape-like shape ahint,Sae states o’ mind in turn gi’e wayTo different states, and quickly seemImpossible to later men,And Man’s mind in its final shape,Or lang’ll seem a monkey’s spook,And, strewth, to me the vera thochtO’ Thocht already’s fell like that!Yet still the cracklin’ thorns persistIn fitba’ match and peepy show,To antic hay a dog-fecht’s mairThan Jacobv.the Angel,And through a cylinder o’ wombs,A star reflected in a dub,I see as ’twere my ain wild harnsThe ripple o’ Eve’s moniplies.And faith! yestreen in Cruivie’s eenLife rocked at midnicht in a tree,And in Gilsanquhar’s glower I sawThe taps o’ waves ’neth which the warldGa’ed rowin’ like a jeelyfish,And whiles I canna look at JeanFor fear I’d see the sunlicht turnWorm-like into the glaur again!A black leaf owre a white leaf twirls,My liver’s shadow on my soul,And clots o’ bluid loup oot frae stemsThat back into the jungle rin,Or in the waters underneathKelter like seaweed, while I hearAbune the thunder o’ the flood,The voice that aince commanded lichtSing ‘Scots Wha Ha’e’ and hyne awa’Like Cruivie up a different glen,And leave me like a mixture o’A wee Scotch nicht and Judgment Day,The bile, the Bible, and theScotsman,Poetry and pigs—Infernal Thistle,Damnition haggis I’ve spewed up,And syne return to like twa dogs!Blin’ Proteus wi’ leafs or handsOr flippers ditherin’ in the lift—Thou Samson in a warld that hasNae pillars but your cheengin’ shapesThat dung doon, rise in ither airtsLike windblawn reek frae smoo’drin’ ess!—Hoo lang maun I gi’e aff your formsO’ plants and beasts and men and GodsAnd like a doited Atlas bearThis steeple o’ fish, this eemis warld,Or, maniac heid wi’ snakes for hair,A Maenad, ape Aphrodite,And scunner the Eternal sea?Man needna fash and even nooThe cells that mak’ a’e sliver wi’m,The threidy knit he’s woven wi’,’Ud fain destroy what sicht he hasO’ this puir transitory stage,Yet tho’ he kens the fragment isO’ little worth he e’er can view,Jalousin’ it’s a cheatrie weed,He tyauves wi’ a’ his micht and mainTo keep his sicht despite his kindConspirin’ as their nature is’Gainst ocht wi’ better sicht than theirs.What gars him strive? He canna tell—It may be nocht but cussedness.—At best he hopes for little mairThan his suspicions to confirm,To mock the sicht he hains sae weelAt last wi’ a’ he sees wi’ it,Yet, thistle or no’ whate’er its end,Aiblins the force that mak’s it growAnd lets him see a kennin’ mairThan ither folk and fend his sichtAgen their jealous plots awhile’ll use the poo’ers it seems to waste,This purpose ser’d, in ither ways,That may be better worth the bein’—Or sae he dreams, syne mocks his dreamTill Life grows sheer awa’ frae him,And bratts o’ darkness plug his een.It may be nocht but cussedness,But I’m content gin a’ my thochtCan dae nae mair than let me see,Free frae desire o’ happiness,The foolish faiths o’ ither menIn breedin’, industry, and War,Religion, Science, or ocht elseGang smash—when I ha’e nane mysel’,Or better gin I share them tae,Or mind at least a time I did!Aye, this is Calvary—to bearYour Cross wi’in you frae the seed,And feel it grow by slow degreesUntil it rends your flesh apairt,And turn, and see your fellow-menIn similar case but sufferin’ lessThro’ bein’ mair wudden frae the stert!...

Eneuch? Then here you are. Here’s the haill story.

Life’s connached shapes too’er up in croons o’ glory,

Perpetuatin’, natheless, in their gory

Colour the endless sacrifice and pain

That to their makin’s gane.

The roses like the saints in Heaven treidTriumphant owre the agonies o’ their breed,And wag fu’ mony a celestial heidAbune the thorter-ills o’ leaf and prickIn which they ken the feck maun stick.

The roses like the saints in Heaven treid

Triumphant owre the agonies o’ their breed,

And wag fu’ mony a celestial heid

Abune the thorter-ills o’ leaf and prick

In which they ken the feck maun stick.

Yank oot your orra boughs, my hert!

A mongrel growth, jumble o’ disproportions,Whirlin’ in its incredible contortions,Or wad-be client that an auld whore shuns,Wardin’ her wizened orange o’ a bosomFrae importunities sae gruesome,

A mongrel growth, jumble o’ disproportions,

Whirlin’ in its incredible contortions,

Or wad-be client that an auld whore shuns,

Wardin’ her wizened orange o’ a bosom

Frae importunities sae gruesome,

Or new diversion o’ the hormonesMair fond o’ procreation than the Mormons,And fetchin’ like a devastatin’ storm on’sA’ the uncouth dilemmas o’ oor natur’Objectified in vegetable maitter.

Or new diversion o’ the hormones

Mair fond o’ procreation than the Mormons,

And fetchin’ like a devastatin’ storm on’s

A’ the uncouth dilemmas o’ oor natur’

Objectified in vegetable maitter.

Yank oot your orra boughs, my hert!

And heed nae mair the foolish cries that begYou slice nae mair to aff or pu’ to leg,You skitin’ duffer that gar’s a’body fleg,—What tho’ you ding the haill warld oot o’ jointWi’ a skier to cover-point!

And heed nae mair the foolish cries that beg

You slice nae mair to aff or pu’ to leg,

You skitin’ duffer that gar’s a’body fleg,

—What tho’ you ding the haill warld oot o’ joint

Wi’ a skier to cover-point!

Yank oot your orra boughs, my hert!

Therewasa danger—and it’s weel I see’t—Had brocht ye like Mallarmé to defeat:—“Mon doute, amas de nuit ancienne s’achèveEn maint rameau subtil, qui, demeuré les vraisBois même, prouve, hélas! que bien seul je m’offraisPour triomphe le faute idéale des roses.”[8]

Therewasa danger—and it’s weel I see’t—

Had brocht ye like Mallarmé to defeat:—

“Mon doute, amas de nuit ancienne s’achève

En maint rameau subtil, qui, demeuré les vrais

Bois même, prouve, hélas! que bien seul je m’offrais

Pour triomphe le faute idéale des roses.”[8]

Yank oot your orra boughs, my hert!...

I love to muse upon the skill that gangsTo mak’ the simplest thing that Earth displays,The eident life that ilka atom thrangs,And uses it in the appointit ways,And a’ the endless brain that nocht escapesThat myriad moves them to inimitable shapes.

I love to muse upon the skill that gangs

To mak’ the simplest thing that Earth displays,

The eident life that ilka atom thrangs,

And uses it in the appointit ways,

And a’ the endless brain that nocht escapes

That myriad moves them to inimitable shapes.

Nor to their customed form nor ony itherNew to Creation, by man’s cleverest mind,A’ needfu’ particles first brocht thegither,Could they wi’ timeless labour be combined.There’s nocht that Science yet’s begood to seeIn hauf its deemless detail or its destiny.

Nor to their customed form nor ony ither

New to Creation, by man’s cleverest mind,

A’ needfu’ particles first brocht thegither,

Could they wi’ timeless labour be combined.

There’s nocht that Science yet’s begood to see

In hauf its deemless detail or its destiny.

Oor een gi’e answers based on pairt-seen factsThat beg a’ questions, to ebb minds’ content,But hoo a’e feature or the neist attracts,Wi’ millions mair unseen, wha kens what’s meantBy human brains and to what ends may tell—For naething’s seen or kent that’s near a thing itsel’!

Oor een gi’e answers based on pairt-seen facts

That beg a’ questions, to ebb minds’ content,

But hoo a’e feature or the neist attracts,

Wi’ millions mair unseen, wha kens what’s meant

By human brains and to what ends may tell

—For naething’s seen or kent that’s near a thing itsel’!

Let whasae vaunts his knowledge then and syneSets up a God and kensHispurpose taeTell me what’s gart a’e strain o’ maitter twineIn sic an extraordinary way,And what God’s purpose wi’ the Thistle is—I’ll aiblins ken what he and his God’s worth by this.

Let whasae vaunts his knowledge then and syne

Sets up a God and kensHispurpose tae

Tell me what’s gart a’e strain o’ maitter twine

In sic an extraordinary way,

And what God’s purpose wi’ the Thistle is

—I’ll aiblins ken what he and his God’s worth by this.

I’ve watched it lang and hard until I ha’eA certain symp’thy wi’ its orra waysAnd pride in its success, as weel I may,In growin’ exactly as its instinct says,Save in sae fer as thwarts o’ weather or grun’Or man or ither foes ha’e’ts aims perchance fordone.

I’ve watched it lang and hard until I ha’e

A certain symp’thy wi’ its orra ways

And pride in its success, as weel I may,

In growin’ exactly as its instinct says,

Save in sae fer as thwarts o’ weather or grun’

Or man or ither foes ha’e’ts aims perchance fordone.

But I can form nae notion o’ the spiritThat gars it tak’ the difficult shape it does,Nor judge the merit yet or the demeritO’ this detail or that sae fer as it goesT’ advance the cause that gied it sic a guiseAs maun ha’e pleased its Maker wi’ a gey surprise.

But I can form nae notion o’ the spirit

That gars it tak’ the difficult shape it does,

Nor judge the merit yet or the demerit

O’ this detail or that sae fer as it goes

T’ advance the cause that gied it sic a guise

As maun ha’e pleased its Maker wi’ a gey surprise.

The craft that hit upon the reishlin’ stalk,Wi’ts gausty leafs and a’ its datchie jags,And spired it syne in seely flooers to brakLike sudden lauchter owre its fousome ragsJouks me, sardonic lover, in the routhO’ contrairies that jostle in this dumfoondrin’ growth.

The craft that hit upon the reishlin’ stalk,

Wi’ts gausty leafs and a’ its datchie jags,

And spired it syne in seely flooers to brak

Like sudden lauchter owre its fousome rags

Jouks me, sardonic lover, in the routh

O’ contrairies that jostle in this dumfoondrin’ growth.

What strength ’t’ud need to pit its roses oot,Or double them in number or in size,He canna tell wha canna plumb the root,And learn what’s gar’t its present state arise,And what the limits are that ha’e been putTo change in thistles, and why—and what a change ’ud boot....

What strength ’t’ud need to pit its roses oot,

Or double them in number or in size,

He canna tell wha canna plumb the root,

And learn what’s gar’t its present state arise,

And what the limits are that ha’e been put

To change in thistles, and why—and what a change ’ud boot....

I saw a rose come loupin’ oot[9]Frae a camsteerie plant.O wha’d ha’e thocht yon puir stock hadSic an inhabitant?

I saw a rose come loupin’ oot[9]

Frae a camsteerie plant.

O wha’d ha’e thocht yon puir stock had

Sic an inhabitant?

For centuries it ran to waste,Wi’ pin-heid flooers at times.O’ts hidden hert o’ beauty theyWere but the merest skimes.

For centuries it ran to waste,

Wi’ pin-heid flooers at times.

O’ts hidden hert o’ beauty they

Were but the merest skimes.

Yet while it ran to wud and thorns,The feckless growth was seekin’Some airt to cheenge its life untilA’ in a rose was beekin’.

Yet while it ran to wud and thorns,

The feckless growth was seekin’

Some airt to cheenge its life until

A’ in a rose was beekin’.

“Is there nae way in which my lifeCan mair to flooerin’ come,And bring its waste on shank and jagsDoon to a minimum?

“Is there nae way in which my life

Can mair to flooerin’ come,

And bring its waste on shank and jags

Doon to a minimum?

“It’s hard to struggle as I maunFor scrunts o’ blooms like mine,While blossom covers ither plantsAs by a knack divine.

“It’s hard to struggle as I maun

For scrunts o’ blooms like mine,

While blossom covers ither plants

As by a knack divine.

“What hinders me unless I lackSome needfu’ discipline?—I wis I’ll bring my orra lifeTo beauty or I’m din!”

“What hinders me unless I lack

Some needfu’ discipline?

—I wis I’ll bring my orra life

To beauty or I’m din!”

Sae ran the thocht that hid ahintThe thistle’s ugsome guise,“I’ll brak’ the habit o’ my lifeA worthier to devise.”

Sae ran the thocht that hid ahint

The thistle’s ugsome guise,

“I’ll brak’ the habit o’ my life

A worthier to devise.”

“My nobler instincts sall nae mairThis contrair shape be gi’en.I sall nae mair consent to liveA life no’ fit to be seen.”

“My nobler instincts sall nae mair

This contrair shape be gi’en.

I sall nae mair consent to live

A life no’ fit to be seen.”

Sae ran the thocht that hid ahintThe thistle’s ugsome guise,Till a’ at aince a rose loupt out—I watched it wi’ surprise.

Sae ran the thocht that hid ahint

The thistle’s ugsome guise,

Till a’ at aince a rose loupt out

—I watched it wi’ surprise.

A rose loupt oot and grew, untilIt was ten times the sizeO’ ony rose the thistle aforeHad heistit to the skies.

A rose loupt oot and grew, until

It was ten times the size

O’ ony rose the thistle afore

Had heistit to the skies.

And still it grew till a’ the bussWas hidden in its flame.I never saw sae braw a floo’erAs yon thrawn stock became.

And still it grew till a’ the buss

Was hidden in its flame.

I never saw sae braw a floo’er

As yon thrawn stock became.

And still it grew until it seemedThe haill braid earth had turnedA reid reid rose that in the liftLike a ball o’ fire burned.

And still it grew until it seemed

The haill braid earth had turned

A reid reid rose that in the lift

Like a ball o’ fire burned.

The waefu’ clay was fire aince mair,As Earth had been resumedInto God’s mind, frae which sae langTo grugous state ’twas doomed.

The waefu’ clay was fire aince mair,

As Earth had been resumed

Into God’s mind, frae which sae lang

To grugous state ’twas doomed.

Syne the rose shrivelled suddenlyAs a balloon is burst;The thistle was a ghaistly stick,As gin it had been curst.

Syne the rose shrivelled suddenly

As a balloon is burst;

The thistle was a ghaistly stick,

As gin it had been curst.

Was it the ancient vicious swayImposed itsel’ again,Or nerve owre weak for new empriseThat made the effort vain,

Was it the ancient vicious sway

Imposed itsel’ again,

Or nerve owre weak for new emprise

That made the effort vain,

A coward strain in that lorn growthThat wrocht the sorry trick?—The thistle like a rocket soaredAnd cam’ doon like the stick.

A coward strain in that lorn growth

That wrocht the sorry trick?

—The thistle like a rocket soared

And cam’ doon like the stick.

Like grieshuckle the roses glint,The leafs like farles hing,As roond a hopeless sacrificeEarth draws its barren ring.

Like grieshuckle the roses glint,

The leafs like farles hing,

As roond a hopeless sacrifice

Earth draws its barren ring.

The dream o’ beauty’s dernin’ yetAhint the ugsome shape.—Vain dream that in a pinheid hereAnd there can e’er escape!

The dream o’ beauty’s dernin’ yet

Ahint the ugsome shape.

—Vain dream that in a pinheid here

And there can e’er escape!

The vices that defeat the dreamAre in the plant itsel’,And till they’re purged its virtues maunIn pain and misery dwell.

The vices that defeat the dream

Are in the plant itsel’,

And till they’re purged its virtues maun

In pain and misery dwell.

Let Deils rejoice to see the waste,The fond hope brocht to nocht.The thistle in their een is asA favourite lust they’re wrocht.

Let Deils rejoice to see the waste,

The fond hope brocht to nocht.

The thistle in their een is as

A favourite lust they’re wrocht.

The orderin’ o’ the thistle meansNae richtin’ o’t to them.Its loss they ca’ a law, its thornsA fule’s fit diadem.

The orderin’ o’ the thistle means

Nae richtin’ o’t to them.

Its loss they ca’ a law, its thorns

A fule’s fit diadem.

And still the idiot nails itsel’To its ain crucifix,While here a rose and there a roseJaups oot abune the pricks.

And still the idiot nails itsel’

To its ain crucifix,

While here a rose and there a rose

Jaups oot abune the pricks.

Like connoisseurs the Deils gang roondAnd praise its attitude,Till on the Cross the silly ChristTo fidge fu’ fain’s begood!

Like connoisseurs the Deils gang roond

And praise its attitude,

Till on the Cross the silly Christ

To fidge fu’ fain’s begood!

Like connoisseurs the Deils gang roondWi’ ready platitude.It’s no’ sae dear as vinegar,And every bit as good!

Like connoisseurs the Deils gang roond

Wi’ ready platitude.

It’s no’ sae dear as vinegar,

And every bit as good!

The bitter taste is on my tongue,I chowl my chafts, and pray“Let God forsake me noo and no’Staund connoisseur-like tae!”...

The bitter taste is on my tongue,

I chowl my chafts, and pray

“Let God forsake me noo and no’

Staund connoisseur-like tae!”...

The language that but sparely flooersAnd maistly gangs to weed;The thocht o’ Christ and CalvaryAye liddenin’ in my heid;And a’ the dour provincial thochtThat merks the Scottish breed—These are the thistle’s characters,To argie there’s nae need.Hoo weel my verse embodiesThe thistle you can read!—But will a Scotsman neverFrae this vile growth be freed?...

The language that but sparely flooers

And maistly gangs to weed;

The thocht o’ Christ and Calvary

Aye liddenin’ in my heid;

And a’ the dour provincial thocht

That merks the Scottish breed

—These are the thistle’s characters,

To argie there’s nae need.

Hoo weel my verse embodies

The thistle you can read!

—But will a Scotsman never

Frae this vile growth be freed?...

O ilka man alive is likeA quart that’s squeezed into a pint(A maist unScottish-like affair!)Or like the little maid that showedMe into a still sma’er room.

O ilka man alive is like

A quart that’s squeezed into a pint

(A maist unScottish-like affair!)

Or like the little maid that showed

Me into a still sma’er room.

What use to let a sunrise fadeTo ha’e anither like’t the morn,Or let a generation passThat ane nae better may succeed,Or wi’ a’ Time’s machineryKeep naething new aneth the sun,Or change things oot o’ kennin’ thatThey may be a’ the mair the same?

What use to let a sunrise fade

To ha’e anither like’t the morn,

Or let a generation pass

That ane nae better may succeed,

Or wi’ a’ Time’s machinery

Keep naething new aneth the sun,

Or change things oot o’ kennin’ that

They may be a’ the mair the same?

The thistle in the wund dissolvesIn lichtnin’s as shook foil gi’es wayIn sudden splendours, or the fleshAt Daith lets slip the infinite soul;And syne it’s like a sunrise tintIn grey o’ day, or love and life,That in a cloody blash o’ spermUndae the warld to big’t again,Or like a pickled foetus thatNae man feels ocht in common wi’—But micht as easily ha’ been!Or like a corpse a soul set freeScunners to think it tenanted—And little recks that but for itIt never micht ha’ been at a’,Like love frae lust and God frae man!

The thistle in the wund dissolves

In lichtnin’s as shook foil gi’es way

In sudden splendours, or the flesh

At Daith lets slip the infinite soul;

And syne it’s like a sunrise tint

In grey o’ day, or love and life,

That in a cloody blash o’ sperm

Undae the warld to big’t again,

Or like a pickled foetus that

Nae man feels ocht in common wi’

—But micht as easily ha’ been!

Or like a corpse a soul set free

Scunners to think it tenanted

—And little recks that but for it

It never micht ha’ been at a’,

Like love frae lust and God frae man!

The wasted seam that dries like stairchAnd pooders aff, that micht ha’ beenA warld o’ men and syne o’ Gods;The grey that haunts the vievest green;The wrang side o’ the noblest sceneWe ne’er can whummle to oor een,As ’twere the hinderpairts o’ GodHis face aye turned the opposite road,Or’s neth the flooers the drumlie clodsFrae which they come at sicna odds,As a’ Earth’s magic frae a spirt,In shame and secrecy, o’ dirt!

The wasted seam that dries like stairch

And pooders aff, that micht ha’ been

A warld o’ men and syne o’ Gods;

The grey that haunts the vievest green;

The wrang side o’ the noblest scene

We ne’er can whummle to oor een,

As ’twere the hinderpairts o’ God

His face aye turned the opposite road,

Or’s neth the flooers the drumlie clods

Frae which they come at sicna odds,

As a’ Earth’s magic frae a spirt,

In shame and secrecy, o’ dirt!

Then shak’ nae mair in silly life,Nor stand impossible as Daith,Incredible as a’thing isInside or oot owre closely scanned.As mithers aften think the warldO’ bairns that ha’e nae end or object,Or lovers think their sweethearts madeYince-yirn—wha haena waled the lave,Maikless—when they are naebody,Or men o’ ilka sort and kindAre prood o’ thochts they ca’ their ain,That nameless millions had aforeAnd nameless millions yet’ll ha’e,And that were never worth the ha’en,Or Cruivie’s “latest” story orGilsanquhar’s vows to sign the pledge,Or’s if I thocht maist whiskywas,Or failed to coont the cheenge I got,Sae wad I be gin I rejoiced,Or didna ken my place, in thee.

Then shak’ nae mair in silly life,

Nor stand impossible as Daith,

Incredible as a’thing is

Inside or oot owre closely scanned.

As mithers aften think the warld

O’ bairns that ha’e nae end or object,

Or lovers think their sweethearts made

Yince-yirn—wha haena waled the lave,

Maikless—when they are naebody,

Or men o’ ilka sort and kind

Are prood o’ thochts they ca’ their ain,

That nameless millions had afore

And nameless millions yet’ll ha’e,

And that were never worth the ha’en,

Or Cruivie’s “latest” story or

Gilsanquhar’s vows to sign the pledge,

Or’s if I thocht maist whiskywas,

Or failed to coont the cheenge I got,

Sae wad I be gin I rejoiced,

Or didna ken my place, in thee.

O stranglin’ rictus, sterile spasm,Thou stricture in the groins o’ licht,Thou ootrie gangrel frae the wildsO’ chaos fenced frae Eden yetBy the unsplinterable wa’O’ munebeams like a bleeze o’ swords!Nae chance lunge cuts the Gordian knot,Nor sall the belly find reliefIn wha’s entangled monipliesCreation like a stoppage jams,Or in whose loins the mapamoundRunkles in strawns o’ bubos whaurThe generations gravel.The soond o’ water winnin’ free,The sicht o’ licht that braks the rouk,The thocht o’ every thwart owrecomeAre in my ears and een and brain,In whom the bluid is spilt in stour,In whom a’ licht in darkness fails,In whom the mystery o’ lifeIs to a wretched weed bewrayed.

O stranglin’ rictus, sterile spasm,

Thou stricture in the groins o’ licht,

Thou ootrie gangrel frae the wilds

O’ chaos fenced frae Eden yet

By the unsplinterable wa’

O’ munebeams like a bleeze o’ swords!

Nae chance lunge cuts the Gordian knot,

Nor sall the belly find relief

In wha’s entangled moniplies

Creation like a stoppage jams,

Or in whose loins the mapamound

Runkles in strawns o’ bubos whaur

The generations gravel.

The soond o’ water winnin’ free,

The sicht o’ licht that braks the rouk,

The thocht o’ every thwart owrecome

Are in my ears and een and brain,

In whom the bluid is spilt in stour,

In whom a’ licht in darkness fails,

In whom the mystery o’ life

Is to a wretched weed bewrayed.

But let my soul increase in me,God dwarfed to enter my puir thochtExpand to his true size again,And protoplasm’s look befitThe nature o’ its destiny,And seed and sequence be nae mairIncongruous to ane anither,And liquor packed impossiblyMak’ pint-pot an eternal well,And art be relevant to life,And poets mair than dominies yet,And ends nae langer tint in means,Nor forests hidden by their trees,Nor men be sacrificed aliveIn foonds o’ fates designed for them,Nor mansions o’ the soul stand toomTheir owners in their cellars trapped,Nor a’ a people’s genius beA rumple-fyke in Heaven’s doup,While Calvinism uses herTo breed a minister or twa!

But let my soul increase in me,

God dwarfed to enter my puir thocht

Expand to his true size again,

And protoplasm’s look befit

The nature o’ its destiny,

And seed and sequence be nae mair

Incongruous to ane anither,

And liquor packed impossibly

Mak’ pint-pot an eternal well,

And art be relevant to life,

And poets mair than dominies yet,

And ends nae langer tint in means,

Nor forests hidden by their trees,

Nor men be sacrificed alive

In foonds o’ fates designed for them,

Nor mansions o’ the soul stand toom

Their owners in their cellars trapped,

Nor a’ a people’s genius be

A rumple-fyke in Heaven’s doup,

While Calvinism uses her

To breed a minister or twa!

A black leaf owre a white leaf twirls,A grey leaf flauchters in atween,Sae ply my thochts aboot the stemO’ loppert slime frae which they spring.The thistle like a snawstorm drives,Or like a flicht o’ swallows lifts,Or like a swarm o’ midges hings,A plague o’ moths, a starry sky,But’s naething but a thistle yet,And still the puzzle stands unsolved.Beauty and ugliness alike,And life and daith and God and man,Are aspects o’t but nane can tellThe secret that I’d fain find ootO’ this bricht hive, this sorry weed,The tree that fills the universe,Or like a reistit herrin’ crines.

A black leaf owre a white leaf twirls,

A grey leaf flauchters in atween,

Sae ply my thochts aboot the stem

O’ loppert slime frae which they spring.

The thistle like a snawstorm drives,

Or like a flicht o’ swallows lifts,

Or like a swarm o’ midges hings,

A plague o’ moths, a starry sky,

But’s naething but a thistle yet,

And still the puzzle stands unsolved.

Beauty and ugliness alike,

And life and daith and God and man,

Are aspects o’t but nane can tell

The secret that I’d fain find oot

O’ this bricht hive, this sorry weed,

The tree that fills the universe,

Or like a reistit herrin’ crines.

Gin I was sober I micht thinkIt was like something drunk men see!

Gin I was sober I micht think

It was like something drunk men see!

The necromancy in my bluidThrough a’ the gamut cheenges meO’ dwarf and giant, foul and fair,But winna let me be mysel’—My mither’s womb that reins me stillUntil I tae can prick the witchAnd “Wumman” cry wi’ Christ at last,“Then what hast thou to do wi’ me?”

The necromancy in my bluid

Through a’ the gamut cheenges me

O’ dwarf and giant, foul and fair,

But winna let me be mysel’

—My mither’s womb that reins me still

Until I tae can prick the witch

And “Wumman” cry wi’ Christ at last,

“Then what hast thou to do wi’ me?”

The tug-o’-war is in me still,The dog-hank o’ the flesh and soul,Faither in Heaven, what gar’d ye tak’A village slut to mither me,Your mongrel o’ the fire and clay?The trollop and the Deity shareMy writhen form as tho’ I wereA picture o’ the time they hadWhen Licht rejoiced to file itsel’And Earth upshuddered like a star.

The tug-o’-war is in me still,

The dog-hank o’ the flesh and soul,

Faither in Heaven, what gar’d ye tak’

A village slut to mither me,

Your mongrel o’ the fire and clay?

The trollop and the Deity share

My writhen form as tho’ I were

A picture o’ the time they had

When Licht rejoiced to file itsel’

And Earth upshuddered like a star.

A drucken hizzie gane to bedWi’ three-in-ane and ane-in-three.

A drucken hizzie gane to bed

Wi’ three-in-ane and ane-in-three.

O fain I’d drink until I sawScotland a ferlie o’ delicht,And fain bide drunk nor ha’e’t recedeInto a shrivelled thistle syne,As when a sperklin’ tide rins oot,And leaves a wreath o’ rubbish there!

O fain I’d drink until I saw

Scotland a ferlie o’ delicht,

And fain bide drunk nor ha’e’t recede

Into a shrivelled thistle syne,

As when a sperklin’ tide rins oot,

And leaves a wreath o’ rubbish there!

Wull a’ the seas gang dry at last(As dry as I am gettin’ noo),Or wull they aye come back again,Seilfu’ as my neist drink to me,Or as the sunlicht to the mune,Or as the bonny sangs o’ men,Wha’re but puir craturs in themsels,And save when genius mak’s them drunk,As donnert as their audiences,—As dreams that mak’ a tramp a king,A madman sane to his ain mind,Or what a Scotsman thinks himsel’,Tho’ naethin’ but a thistle kyths.

Wull a’ the seas gang dry at last

(As dry as I am gettin’ noo),

Or wull they aye come back again,

Seilfu’ as my neist drink to me,

Or as the sunlicht to the mune,

Or as the bonny sangs o’ men,

Wha’re but puir craturs in themsels,

And save when genius mak’s them drunk,

As donnert as their audiences,

—As dreams that mak’ a tramp a king,

A madman sane to his ain mind,

Or what a Scotsman thinks himsel’,

Tho’ naethin’ but a thistle kyths.

The mair I drink the thirstier yet,And whiles when I’m alowe wi’ booze,I’m like God’s sel’ and clad in fire,And ha’e a Pentecost like this.O wad that I could aye be fou’,And no’ come back as aye I maunTo naething but a fule that nane’Ud credit wi’ sic thochts as thae,A fule that kens they’re empty dreams!

The mair I drink the thirstier yet,

And whiles when I’m alowe wi’ booze,

I’m like God’s sel’ and clad in fire,

And ha’e a Pentecost like this.

O wad that I could aye be fou’,

And no’ come back as aye I maun

To naething but a fule that nane

’Ud credit wi’ sic thochts as thae,

A fule that kens they’re empty dreams!

Yet but fer drink and drink’s effects,The yeast o’ God that barms in us,We micht as weel no’ be alive.It maitters not what drink is ta’en,The barley bree, ambition, love,Or Guid or Evil workin’ in’s,Sae lang’s we feel like souls set freeFrae mortal coils and speak in tonguesWe dinna ken and never wull,And find a merit in oorsels,In Cruivies and Gilsanquhars tae,And see the thistle as ocht but that!

Yet but fer drink and drink’s effects,

The yeast o’ God that barms in us,

We micht as weel no’ be alive.

It maitters not what drink is ta’en,

The barley bree, ambition, love,

Or Guid or Evil workin’ in’s,

Sae lang’s we feel like souls set free

Frae mortal coils and speak in tongues

We dinna ken and never wull,

And find a merit in oorsels,

In Cruivies and Gilsanquhars tae,

And see the thistle as ocht but that!

For wha o’s ha’e the thistle’s poo’erTo see we’re worthless and believe ’t?

For wha o’s ha’e the thistle’s poo’er

To see we’re worthless and believe ’t?

A’thing that ony man can be’sA mockery o’ his soul at last.The mair it shows’t the better, andI’d suner be a tramp than king,Lest in the pride o’ place and poo’erI e’er forgot my waesomeness.Sae to debauchery and dirt,And to disease and daith I turn,Sin’ otherwise my seemin’ worth’Ud block my view o’ what is what,And blin’ me to the ironyO’ bein’ a grocer ’neth the sun,A lawyer gin Justice ope’d her een,A pedant like an ant promoted,A parson buttonholin’ God,Or ony cratur o’ the EarthSma’-bookt to John Smith, High Street, Perth,Or sic like vulgar gaffe o’ lifeSub speciem aeternitatis—Nae void can fleg me hauf as muchAs bein’ mysel’, whate’er I am,Or, waur, bein’ onybody else.

A’thing that ony man can be’s

A mockery o’ his soul at last.

The mair it shows’t the better, and

I’d suner be a tramp than king,

Lest in the pride o’ place and poo’er

I e’er forgot my waesomeness.

Sae to debauchery and dirt,

And to disease and daith I turn,

Sin’ otherwise my seemin’ worth

’Ud block my view o’ what is what,

And blin’ me to the irony

O’ bein’ a grocer ’neth the sun,

A lawyer gin Justice ope’d her een,

A pedant like an ant promoted,

A parson buttonholin’ God,

Or ony cratur o’ the Earth

Sma’-bookt to John Smith, High Street, Perth,

Or sic like vulgar gaffe o’ life

Sub speciem aeternitatis—

Nae void can fleg me hauf as much

As bein’ mysel’, whate’er I am,

Or, waur, bein’ onybody else.

The nervous thistle’s shiverin’ likeA horse’s skin aneth a cleg,Or Northern Lichts or lustres o’A soul that Daith has fastened on,Or mornin’ efter the nicht afore.

The nervous thistle’s shiverin’ like

A horse’s skin aneth a cleg,

Or Northern Lichts or lustres o’

A soul that Daith has fastened on,

Or mornin’ efter the nicht afore.

Shudderin’ thistle, gi’e owre, gi’e owre....

Grey sand is churnin’ in my lugsThe munelicht flets, and gantin’ thereThe grave o’ a’ mankind’s laid bare—On Hell itsel’ the drawback rugs!

Grey sand is churnin’ in my lugs

The munelicht flets, and gantin’ there

The grave o’ a’ mankind’s laid bare

—On Hell itsel’ the drawback rugs!

Nae man can ken his hert untilThe tide o’ life uncovers it,And horror-struck he sees a pitReturnin’ life can never fill!...

Nae man can ken his hert until

The tide o’ life uncovers it,

And horror-struck he sees a pit

Returnin’ life can never fill!...

Thou art the facts in ilka airtThat breenge into infinity,Criss-crossed wi’ coontless ither factsNae man can follow, and o’ whichHe is himsel’ a helpless pairt,Held in their tangle as he wereA stick-nest in Ygdrasil!

Thou art the facts in ilka airt

That breenge into infinity,

Criss-crossed wi’ coontless ither facts

Nae man can follow, and o’ which

He is himsel’ a helpless pairt,

Held in their tangle as he were

A stick-nest in Ygdrasil!

The less man sees the mair he isContent wi’t, but the mair he seesThe mair he kens hoo little o’A’ that there is he’ll ever see,And hoo it mak’s confusion ayeThe waur confoondit till at lastHis brain inside his heid is likeAriadne wi’ an empty pirn,Or like a birlin’ reel frae whichA whale has rived the line awa’.

The less man sees the mair he is

Content wi’t, but the mair he sees

The mair he kens hoo little o’

A’ that there is he’ll ever see,

And hoo it mak’s confusion aye

The waur confoondit till at last

His brain inside his heid is like

Ariadne wi’ an empty pirn,

Or like a birlin’ reel frae which

A whale has rived the line awa’.

What better’s a forhooied nestThan skasloch scattered owre the grun’?

What better’s a forhooied nest

Than skasloch scattered owre the grun’?

O hard it is for man to kenHe’s no’ creation’s goal nor yetA benefitter by’t at last—A means to ends he’ll never ken,And as to michtier elementsThe slauchtered brutes he eats to himOr forms o’ life owre sma’ to seeWi’ which his heedless body swarms,And a’ man’s thocht nae mair to themThan ony moosewob to a man,His Heaven to them the blinterin’ o’A snail-trail on their closet wa’!

O hard it is for man to ken

He’s no’ creation’s goal nor yet

A benefitter by’t at last—

A means to ends he’ll never ken,

And as to michtier elements

The slauchtered brutes he eats to him

Or forms o’ life owre sma’ to see

Wi’ which his heedless body swarms,

And a’ man’s thocht nae mair to them

Than ony moosewob to a man,

His Heaven to them the blinterin’ o’

A snail-trail on their closet wa’!

For what’s an atom o’ a twigThat tak’s a billion to an inchTo a’ the routh o’ shoots that mak’The bygrowth o’ the Earth abootThe michty trunk o’ Space that spreidsRamel o’ licht that ha’e nae end,—The trunk wi’ centuries for rings,Comets for fruit, November shooersFor leafs that in its Autumns fa’—And Man at maist o’ sic a twigAne o’ the coontless atoms is!

For what’s an atom o’ a twig

That tak’s a billion to an inch

To a’ the routh o’ shoots that mak’

The bygrowth o’ the Earth aboot

The michty trunk o’ Space that spreids

Ramel o’ licht that ha’e nae end,

—The trunk wi’ centuries for rings,

Comets for fruit, November shooers

For leafs that in its Autumns fa’

—And Man at maist o’ sic a twig

Ane o’ the coontless atoms is!

My sinnens and my veins are butAs muckle o’ a single shootWha’s fibre I can ne’er unwaftO’ my wife’s flesh and mither’s fleshAnd a’ the flesh o’ humankind,And revelled thrums o’ beasts and plantsAs gangs to mak’ twixt birth and daithA’e sliver for a microscope;And a’ the life o’ Earth to beCan never lift frae underneathThe shank o’ which oor destiny’s pairtAs heich’s to stand forenenst the trunkStupendous as a windlestrae!

My sinnens and my veins are but

As muckle o’ a single shoot

Wha’s fibre I can ne’er unwaft

O’ my wife’s flesh and mither’s flesh

And a’ the flesh o’ humankind,

And revelled thrums o’ beasts and plants

As gangs to mak’ twixt birth and daith

A’e sliver for a microscope;

And a’ the life o’ Earth to be

Can never lift frae underneath

The shank o’ which oor destiny’s pairt

As heich’s to stand forenenst the trunk

Stupendous as a windlestrae!

I’m under nae delusions, fegs!The whuppin’ sooker at wha’s tipOor little point o’ view appears,A midget coom o’ continentsWi’ blebs o’ oceans set, sends upThe braith o’ daith as weel as life,And we maun braird anither tipOot owre us ere we wither tae,And join the sentrice skeletonAs coral insects big their reefs.

I’m under nae delusions, fegs!

The whuppin’ sooker at wha’s tip

Oor little point o’ view appears,

A midget coom o’ continents

Wi’ blebs o’ oceans set, sends up

The braith o’ daith as weel as life,

And we maun braird anither tip

Oot owre us ere we wither tae,

And join the sentrice skeleton

As coral insects big their reefs.

What is the tree? As fer as Man’sConcerned it disna maitterGin but a giant thistle ’tisThat spreids eternal mischief there,As I’m inclined to think.Ruthless it sends its solid growthThrough mair than he can e’er conceive,And braks his warlds abreid and rivesHis Heavens to tatters on its horns.

What is the tree? As fer as Man’s

Concerned it disna maitter

Gin but a giant thistle ’tis

That spreids eternal mischief there,

As I’m inclined to think.

Ruthless it sends its solid growth

Through mair than he can e’er conceive,

And braks his warlds abreid and rives

His Heavens to tatters on its horns.

The nature or the purpose o’tHe needna fash to spier, for heIs destined to be sune owre grownAnd hidden wi’ the parent wudThe spreidin’ boughs in darkness hap,And a’ its future life’ll beOotwith’m as he’s ootwith his banes.

The nature or the purpose o’t

He needna fash to spier, for he

Is destined to be sune owre grown

And hidden wi’ the parent wud

The spreidin’ boughs in darkness hap,

And a’ its future life’ll be

Ootwith’m as he’s ootwith his banes.

Juist as man’s skeleton has leftIts ancient ape-like shape ahint,Sae states o’ mind in turn gi’e wayTo different states, and quickly seemImpossible to later men,And Man’s mind in its final shape,Or lang’ll seem a monkey’s spook,And, strewth, to me the vera thochtO’ Thocht already’s fell like that!Yet still the cracklin’ thorns persistIn fitba’ match and peepy show,To antic hay a dog-fecht’s mairThan Jacobv.the Angel,And through a cylinder o’ wombs,A star reflected in a dub,I see as ’twere my ain wild harnsThe ripple o’ Eve’s moniplies.

Juist as man’s skeleton has left

Its ancient ape-like shape ahint,

Sae states o’ mind in turn gi’e way

To different states, and quickly seem

Impossible to later men,

And Man’s mind in its final shape,

Or lang’ll seem a monkey’s spook,

And, strewth, to me the vera thocht

O’ Thocht already’s fell like that!

Yet still the cracklin’ thorns persist

In fitba’ match and peepy show,

To antic hay a dog-fecht’s mair

Than Jacobv.the Angel,

And through a cylinder o’ wombs,

A star reflected in a dub,

I see as ’twere my ain wild harns

The ripple o’ Eve’s moniplies.

And faith! yestreen in Cruivie’s eenLife rocked at midnicht in a tree,And in Gilsanquhar’s glower I sawThe taps o’ waves ’neth which the warldGa’ed rowin’ like a jeelyfish,And whiles I canna look at JeanFor fear I’d see the sunlicht turnWorm-like into the glaur again!

And faith! yestreen in Cruivie’s een

Life rocked at midnicht in a tree,

And in Gilsanquhar’s glower I saw

The taps o’ waves ’neth which the warld

Ga’ed rowin’ like a jeelyfish,

And whiles I canna look at Jean

For fear I’d see the sunlicht turn

Worm-like into the glaur again!

A black leaf owre a white leaf twirls,My liver’s shadow on my soul,And clots o’ bluid loup oot frae stemsThat back into the jungle rin,Or in the waters underneathKelter like seaweed, while I hearAbune the thunder o’ the flood,The voice that aince commanded lichtSing ‘Scots Wha Ha’e’ and hyne awa’Like Cruivie up a different glen,And leave me like a mixture o’A wee Scotch nicht and Judgment Day,The bile, the Bible, and theScotsman,Poetry and pigs—Infernal Thistle,Damnition haggis I’ve spewed up,And syne return to like twa dogs!Blin’ Proteus wi’ leafs or handsOr flippers ditherin’ in the lift—Thou Samson in a warld that hasNae pillars but your cheengin’ shapesThat dung doon, rise in ither airtsLike windblawn reek frae smoo’drin’ ess!—Hoo lang maun I gi’e aff your formsO’ plants and beasts and men and GodsAnd like a doited Atlas bearThis steeple o’ fish, this eemis warld,Or, maniac heid wi’ snakes for hair,A Maenad, ape Aphrodite,And scunner the Eternal sea?

A black leaf owre a white leaf twirls,

My liver’s shadow on my soul,

And clots o’ bluid loup oot frae stems

That back into the jungle rin,

Or in the waters underneath

Kelter like seaweed, while I hear

Abune the thunder o’ the flood,

The voice that aince commanded licht

Sing ‘Scots Wha Ha’e’ and hyne awa’

Like Cruivie up a different glen,

And leave me like a mixture o’

A wee Scotch nicht and Judgment Day,

The bile, the Bible, and theScotsman,

Poetry and pigs—Infernal Thistle,

Damnition haggis I’ve spewed up,

And syne return to like twa dogs!

Blin’ Proteus wi’ leafs or hands

Or flippers ditherin’ in the lift

—Thou Samson in a warld that has

Nae pillars but your cheengin’ shapes

That dung doon, rise in ither airts

Like windblawn reek frae smoo’drin’ ess!

—Hoo lang maun I gi’e aff your forms

O’ plants and beasts and men and Gods

And like a doited Atlas bear

This steeple o’ fish, this eemis warld,

Or, maniac heid wi’ snakes for hair,

A Maenad, ape Aphrodite,

And scunner the Eternal sea?

Man needna fash and even nooThe cells that mak’ a’e sliver wi’m,The threidy knit he’s woven wi’,’Ud fain destroy what sicht he hasO’ this puir transitory stage,Yet tho’ he kens the fragment isO’ little worth he e’er can view,Jalousin’ it’s a cheatrie weed,He tyauves wi’ a’ his micht and mainTo keep his sicht despite his kindConspirin’ as their nature is’Gainst ocht wi’ better sicht than theirs.

Man needna fash and even noo

The cells that mak’ a’e sliver wi’m,

The threidy knit he’s woven wi’,

’Ud fain destroy what sicht he has

O’ this puir transitory stage,

Yet tho’ he kens the fragment is

O’ little worth he e’er can view,

Jalousin’ it’s a cheatrie weed,

He tyauves wi’ a’ his micht and main

To keep his sicht despite his kind

Conspirin’ as their nature is

’Gainst ocht wi’ better sicht than theirs.

What gars him strive? He canna tell—It may be nocht but cussedness.—At best he hopes for little mairThan his suspicions to confirm,To mock the sicht he hains sae weelAt last wi’ a’ he sees wi’ it,Yet, thistle or no’ whate’er its end,Aiblins the force that mak’s it growAnd lets him see a kennin’ mairThan ither folk and fend his sichtAgen their jealous plots awhile’ll use the poo’ers it seems to waste,This purpose ser’d, in ither ways,That may be better worth the bein’—Or sae he dreams, syne mocks his dreamTill Life grows sheer awa’ frae him,And bratts o’ darkness plug his een.

What gars him strive? He canna tell—

It may be nocht but cussedness.

—At best he hopes for little mair

Than his suspicions to confirm,

To mock the sicht he hains sae weel

At last wi’ a’ he sees wi’ it,

Yet, thistle or no’ whate’er its end,

Aiblins the force that mak’s it grow

And lets him see a kennin’ mair

Than ither folk and fend his sicht

Agen their jealous plots awhile

’ll use the poo’ers it seems to waste,

This purpose ser’d, in ither ways,

That may be better worth the bein’

—Or sae he dreams, syne mocks his dream

Till Life grows sheer awa’ frae him,

And bratts o’ darkness plug his een.

It may be nocht but cussedness,But I’m content gin a’ my thochtCan dae nae mair than let me see,Free frae desire o’ happiness,The foolish faiths o’ ither menIn breedin’, industry, and War,Religion, Science, or ocht elseGang smash—when I ha’e nane mysel’,Or better gin I share them tae,Or mind at least a time I did!

It may be nocht but cussedness,

But I’m content gin a’ my thocht

Can dae nae mair than let me see,

Free frae desire o’ happiness,

The foolish faiths o’ ither men

In breedin’, industry, and War,

Religion, Science, or ocht else

Gang smash—when I ha’e nane mysel’,

Or better gin I share them tae,

Or mind at least a time I did!

Aye, this is Calvary—to bearYour Cross wi’in you frae the seed,And feel it grow by slow degreesUntil it rends your flesh apairt,And turn, and see your fellow-menIn similar case but sufferin’ lessThro’ bein’ mair wudden frae the stert!...

Aye, this is Calvary—to bear

Your Cross wi’in you frae the seed,

And feel it grow by slow degrees

Until it rends your flesh apairt,

And turn, and see your fellow-men

In similar case but sufferin’ less

Thro’ bein’ mair wudden frae the stert!...

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