And gethers there in drift on endless drift,Oor broken herts that it can never fill;And still—its leafs like snaw, its growth like wund.—The thistle rises and forever will!...The thistle rises and forever will,Getherin’ the generations under’t.This is the monument o’ a’ they were,And a’ they hoped and wondered.The barren tree, dry leafs, and cracklin’ thorns,This is the mind o’ a’ humanity,—The empty intellect that left to grow’ll let nocht ither be.Lo! It has choked the sunlicht’s gowden grain,And strangled syne the white hairst o’ the mune.Thocht that mak’s a’ the food o’ nocht but ThochtIs reishlin’ grey abune....O fitly frae oor cancerous soilMay this heraldic horror rise!The Presbyterian thistle flourishes,And its ain roses crucifies....No’ Edinburgh Castle or the fieldsO’ Bannockburn or FloddenAre dernin’ wi’ the miskent soulScotland sae lang has hod’n.It hands nae pew in ony kirk,The soul Christ cam’ to save;Nae R.S.A.’s ha’e pentit it,F.S.A.’s fund its grave.Is it alive or deid? I showMy hert—wha will can see.The secret clyre in Scotland’s lifeHas brust and reams through me,A whummlin’ sea in which is heardThe clunk o’ nameless banes;A grisly thistle dirlin’ shrillAbune the broken stanes.Westminster Abbey nor the Fleet,Nor England’s Constitution, butIn a’ the michty city there,You mind a’e fleggit slut,As Tolstoi o’ Lucerne alaneMinded a’e beggar minstrel seen!The woundit side draws a’ the warld.Barbarians ha’e lizards’ een.Glesca’s a gless whaur Magdalene’sDiscovered in a million crimes.Christ comes again—wheesht, whatna bairnIn backlands cries betimes?Hard faces prate o’ their success,And pickle-makers awn the hills.There is nae life in a’ the landBut this infernal Thistle kills....Nae mair I seeAs aince I sawMysel’ in the thistleHarth and haw!Nel suo profondo vidi che s’internaLegato con amore in un volume(Or else by Hate, fu’ aft the better Love)Ciò che per l’universo si squaderna.Sustanzia ed accidenti, e lor costume.Quasi conflati insieme fer tal modo.(The michty thistle in wha’s boonds I rove)Ché ciò ch’io dico è un semplice lume.[16]And kent and was creationIn a’ its coontless forms,Or glitterin’ in raw sunlicht,Or dark wi’ hurrying storms.But what’s the voiceThat sings in me noo?—A’e hauf o’ me tellin’The tither it’s fou!It’s the voice o’ the SoothThat’s held owre langMy Viking NorthWi’ its siren sang....Fier comme un Ecossais.If a’ that I can be’s nae mairThan what mankind’s been yet, I’ll no’Begink the instincts thistlewiseThat dern—and canna show.Damned threids and thrums and skinny shapesO’ a’ that micht, and su’d, ha’ been—Life onyhow at ony price!—In sic I’ll no’ be seen!Fier comme un Ecossais.The wee reliefs we ha’e in booze,Or wun at times in carnal states,May hide frae us but canna cheengeThe silly horrors o’ oor fates.Fier—comme un Ecossais!There’s muckle in the rootThat never can wun oot,Or’t owre what is ’ud sweepLike a thunderstorm owre sheep.But shadows whiles upcreep,And heavy tremors leap ...C’wa’, Daith, again, sned Life’s vain shoot,And your ain coonsel keep!...Time like a bien wife,Truth like a dog’s gane—The bien wife’s gane to the aumrieTo get the puir dog a bane.Opens the aumrie door,And lo! the skeleton’s there,And the gude dog, Truth, has gottenBanes for evermair....Maun I tae perish in the keel o’ Heaven,And is this fratt upon the air the plyO’ cross-brath’d cordage that in gloffs and gowlsBrak’s up the vision o’ the warld’s bricht gy?Ship’s tackle and an eemis cairn o’ frauchtDarker than clamourin’ veins are roond me yet,A plait o’ shadows thicker than the flesh,A fank o’ tows that binds me hand and fit.What gin the gorded fullyery on hieAnd a’ the fanerels o’ the michty shipGi’e back mair licht than fa’s upon them ev’nGin sic black ingangs haud us in their grip?Grugous thistle, to my eenYour widdifow ramel evince,Sibness to snakes wha’s coilsRin coonter airts at yince,And fain I’d follow eachGin you the trick’ll teach.Blin’ root to bleezin’ rose,Through a’ the whirligigO’ shanks and leafs and jagsWhat sends ye sic a rig?Bramble yokin’ earth and heaven,Till they’re baith stramulyert driven!Roses to lure the liftAnd roots to wile the clayAnd wuppit brainches syneTo claught them ’midyards taeTill you’ve the precious pairLike hang’d men dancin’ there,Wi’ mony a seely prickleYou’ll fleg a sunburst oot,Or kittle earthquakes upWi’ an amusin’ root,While, kilted in your tippet,They still can mak’ their rippit....And let me pit in guid set termsMy quarrel wi’ th’owre sonsy rose,That roond aboot its devoteesA fair fat cast o’ aureole throwsThat blinds them, in its mirlygoes,To the necessity o’ foes.Upon their King and System IGlower as on things that whiles in pairtI may admire (at least for them),But wi’ nae claim upon my hert,While a’ their pleasure and their prideOotside me lies—and there maun bide.Ootside me lies—and mair than that,For I stand still for forces whichWere subjugated to mak’ wayFor England’s poo’er, and to enrichThe kinds o’ English, and o’ Scots,The least congenial to my thoughts.Hauf his soul a Scot maun useIndulgin’ in illusions,And hauf in gettin’ rid o’ themAnd comin’ to conclusionsWi’ the demoralisin’ dearthO’ onything worth while on Earth....I’m weary o’ the rose as o’ my brain,And for a deeper knowledge I am fainThan frae this noddin’ object I can gain.Beauty is a’e thing, but it tines anither(For, fegs, they never can be f’und thegither),And ’twixt the twa it’s no’ for me to swither.As frae the grun’ sae thocht frae men springs oot,A ferlie that tells little o’ its source, I doot,And has nae vera fundamental root.And cauld agen my hert are laidThe words o’ Plato when he said,“God o’ geometry is made.”Frae my ain mind I fa’ away,That never yet was feared to sayWhat turned the souls o’ men to clay,Nor cared gin truth frae me ootsprungIn ne’er a leed o’ ony tongueThat ever in a heid was hung.I ken hoo much oor life is fatedAince its first cell is animated,The fount frae which the flesh is jetted.I ken hoo lourd the body liesUpon the spirit when it fliesAnd fain abune its stars ’ud rise.And see I noo a great wheel move,And a’ the notions that I loveDrap into stented groove and groove?It maitters not my mind the day,Nocht maitters that I strive to dae,—For the wheel moves on in its ain way.I sall be moved as it decidesTo look at Life frae ither sides;Rejoice, rebel, its turn abides.And as I see the great wheel spinThere flees a licht frae’t lang and thinThat Earth is like a snaw-ba’ in.(To the uncanny thocht I clutch—The nature o’ man’s soul is suchThat it can ne’er wi’ life tine touch.Man’s mind is in God’s image made,And in its wildest dreams arrayedIn pairt o’ Truth is still displayed.Then suddenly I see as weelAs me spun roon’ within the wheel,The helpless forms o’ God and Deil.And on a birlin’ edge I seeWee Scotland squattin’ like a flea,And dizzy wi’ the speed, and me!)I’ve often thrawn the warld frae me,Into the Pool o’ Space, to seeThe Circles o’ Infinity.Or like a flat stane gar’d it skite,A Morse code message writ in lichtThat yet I couldna read arichtThe skippin’ sparks, the ripples, ritLike skritches o’ a grain o’ grit’Neth Juggernaut in which I sit.Twenty-six thoosand years it tak’sAfore a’e single roond it mak’s,And syne it melts as it were wax.The Phœnix guise ’tll rise in syneIs mair than Euclid or EinsteinCan dream o’ or’s in dreams o’ mine.Upon the huge circumference areAs neebor points the Heavenly WarThat dung doun Lucifer sae far,And that upheaval in which ISodgered ’neth the Grecian skyAnd in Italy and Marseilles,And there isna room for menWha the haill o’ history kenTo pit a pin twixt then and then.Whaur are Bannockburn and Flodden?—O’ a’e grain like facets hod’n,Little wars (twixt that which God inFocht and won, and that which HeTook baith sides in hopelessly),Less than God or I can see.By whatna cry o’ mine oottoppedSall be a’ men ha’e sung and hopedWhen to a’e note they’re telescoped?And Jesus and a nameless apeCollide and share the selfsame shapeThat nocht terrestrial can escape?But less than this nae man need try.He’d better be content to eyeThe wheel in silence whirlin’ by.Nae verse is worth a ha’et untilIt can join issue wi’ the WillThat raised the Wheel and spins it still,But a’ the music that mankind’S made yet is to the Earth confined,Poo’erless to reach the general mind,Poo’erless to reach the neist star e’en,That as a pairt o’ts sel’ is seen,And only men can tell between.Yet I exult oor sang has yetTo grow wings that’ll cairry itAyont its native speck o’ grit,And I exult to find in meThe thocht that this can ever be,A hope still for humanity.For gin the sun and mune at lastAre as a neebor’s lintel passed,The wheel’ll tine its stature fast,And birl in time inside oor heidsTill we can thraw oot conscious gleidsThat draw an answer to oor needs,Or if nae answer still we findBrichten till a’ thing is definedIn the huge licht-beams o’ oor kind,And if we still can find nae traceAhint the Wheel o’ ony Face,There’ll be a glory in the place,And we may aiblins swing contentUpon the wheel in which we’re pentIn adequate enlightenment.Nae ither thocht can mitigateThe horror o’ the endless FateA’thing ’s whirled in predestinate.O whiles I’d fain be blin’ to it,As men wha through the ages sit,And never move frae aff the bit,Wha hear a Burns or Shakespeare sing,Yet still their ain bit jingles string,As they were worth the fashioning.Whatever Scotland is to me,Be it aye pairt o’ a’ men seeO’ Earth and o’ EternityWha winna hide their heids in’t tillIt seems the haill o’ Space to fill,As t’were an unsurmounted hill.He canna Scotland see wha yetCanna see the Infinite,And Scotland in true scale to it.Nor blame I muckle, wham atourEarth’s countries blaw, a pickle stour,To sort wha’s grains they ha’e nae poo’er.E’en stars are seen thegither inA’e skime o’ licht as grey as tinFlyin’ on the wheel as t’were a pin.Syne ither systems ray on raySkinkle past in quick arrayWhile it is still the self-same day,A’e day o’ a’ the million daysThrough which the soul o’ man can gazeUpon the wheel’s incessant blaze,Upon the wheel’s incessant blazeAs it were on a single placeThat twinklin’ filled the howe o’ space.A’e point is a’ that it can be,I wis nae man ’ll ever seeThe rest o’ the rotundity.Impersonality sall blawThrough me as ’twere a bluffert o’ snawTo scour me o’ my sense o’ awe,A bluffert o’ snaw, the licht that fleesWithin the Wheel, and Freedom gi’esFrae Dust and Daith and a’ Disease,—The drumlie doom that only weighsOn them wha ha’ena seen their placeYet in creation’s lichtnin’ race,In the movement that includesAs a tide’s resistless floodsA’ their movements and their moods,—Until disinterested we,O’ a’ oor auld delusions free,Lowe in the wheel’s serenityAs conscious items in the licht,And keen to keep it clear and brichtIn which the haill machine is dight,The licht nae man has ever seenTill he has felt that he’s been gi’enThe stars themsels insteed o’ een,And often wi’ the sun has gloweredAt the white mune until it cowered,As when by new thocht auld’s o’erpowered.Oor universe is like an e’eTurned in, man’s benmaist hert to see,And swamped in subjectivity.But whether it can use its sichtTo bring what lies withoot to lichtTo answer’s still ayont my micht.But when that inturned look has brochtTo licht what still in vain it’s sochtOotward maun be the bent o’ thocht.And organs may develop syneResponsive to the need divineO’ single-minded humankin’.The function, as it seems to me,O’ Poetry is to bring to beAt lang, lang last that unity....But wae’s me on the weary wheel!Higgledy-piggledy in’t we reel,And little it cares hoo we may feel.Twenty-six thoosand years ’tll tak’For it to threid the Zodiac—A single roond o’ the wheel to mak’!Lately it turned—I saw mysel’In sic a company doomed to mell.I micht ha’e been in Dante’s Hell.It shows hoo little the best o’ menE’en o’ themsels at times can ken,—I sune sawthatwhen I gaed ben.The lesser wheel within the bigThat moves as merry as a grig,Wi’ mankind in its whirligigAnd hasna turned a’e circle yetTho’ as it turns we slide in it,And needs maun tak’ the place we get,I felt it turn, and syne I sawJohn Knox and Clavers in my raw,And Mary Queen o’ Scots ana’,And Rabbie Burns and Weelum Wallace,And Carlyle lookin’ unco gallus,And Harry Lauder (to enthrall us).And as I looked I saw them a’,A’ the Scots baith big and sma’,That e’er the braith o’ life did draw.“Mercy o’ Gode, I canna tholeWi’ sic an orra mob to roll.”—“Wheesht! It’s for the guid o’ your soul.”“But what’s the meanin’, what’s the sense?”—“Men shift but by experience.’Twixt Scots there is nae difference.They canna learn, sae canna move,But stick for aye to their auld groove—The only race in History who’veBidden in the same categoryFrae stert to present o’ their story,And deem their ignorance their glory.The mair they differ, mair the same.The wheel can whummle a’ but them,—They ca’ their obstinacy ‘Hame,’And ‘Puir Auld Scotland’ bleat wi’ pride,And wi’ their minds made up to bideA thorn in a’ the wide world’s side.There ha’e been Scots wha ha’e ha’en thochts,They’re strewn through maist o’ the various lots—Sic traitors are nae langer Scots!”“But in this huge ineducableHeterogeneous hotch and rabble,Why amIcondemned to squabble?”“A Scottish poet maun assumeThe burden o’ his people’s doom,And dee to brak’ their livin’ tomb.Mony ha’e tried, but a’ ha’e failed.Their sacrifice has nocht availed.Upon the thistle they’re impaled.You maun choose but gin ye’d seeAnither category yeMaun tine your nationality.”And I look at a’ the randomBand the wheel leaves whaur it fand ’em.“Auch, to Hell,I’ll tak’ it to avizandum.” ...O wae’s me on the weary wheel,And fain I’d understand them!And blessin’ on the weary wheelWhaurever it may land them!...But aince Jean kens what I’ve been throughThe nicht, I dinna doot it,She’ll ope her airms in welcome true,And clack nae mair aboot it....* * * * * * *The stars like thistle’s roses floo’erThe sterile growth o’ Space ootour,That clad in bitter blasts spreids ootFrae me, the sustenance o’ its root.O fain I’d keep my hert entire,Fain hain the licht o’ my desire,But ech! the shinin’ streams ascend,And leave me empty at the end.For aince it’s toomed my hert and brain,The thistle needs maun fa’ again.—But a’ its growth ’ll never fillThe hole it’s turned my life intill!...Yet ha’e I Silence left, the croon o’ a’.No’ her, wha on the hills langsyne I sawLiftin’ a foreheid o’ perpetual snaw.No’ her, wha in the how-dumb-deid o’ nichtKyths, like Eternity in Time’s despite.No’ her, withooten shape, wha’s name is Daith,No’ Him, unkennable abies to faith—God whom, gin e’er He saw a man, ’ud beE’en mair dumfooner’d at the sicht than he.—But Him, whom nocht in man or Deity,Or Daith or Dreid or Laneliness can touch,Wha’s deed owre often and has seen owre much.O I ha’e Silence left,—“And weel ye micht,”Sae Jean’ll say, “efter sic a nicht!”
And gethers there in drift on endless drift,Oor broken herts that it can never fill;And still—its leafs like snaw, its growth like wund.—The thistle rises and forever will!...The thistle rises and forever will,Getherin’ the generations under’t.This is the monument o’ a’ they were,And a’ they hoped and wondered.The barren tree, dry leafs, and cracklin’ thorns,This is the mind o’ a’ humanity,—The empty intellect that left to grow’ll let nocht ither be.Lo! It has choked the sunlicht’s gowden grain,And strangled syne the white hairst o’ the mune.Thocht that mak’s a’ the food o’ nocht but ThochtIs reishlin’ grey abune....O fitly frae oor cancerous soilMay this heraldic horror rise!The Presbyterian thistle flourishes,And its ain roses crucifies....No’ Edinburgh Castle or the fieldsO’ Bannockburn or FloddenAre dernin’ wi’ the miskent soulScotland sae lang has hod’n.It hands nae pew in ony kirk,The soul Christ cam’ to save;Nae R.S.A.’s ha’e pentit it,F.S.A.’s fund its grave.Is it alive or deid? I showMy hert—wha will can see.The secret clyre in Scotland’s lifeHas brust and reams through me,A whummlin’ sea in which is heardThe clunk o’ nameless banes;A grisly thistle dirlin’ shrillAbune the broken stanes.Westminster Abbey nor the Fleet,Nor England’s Constitution, butIn a’ the michty city there,You mind a’e fleggit slut,As Tolstoi o’ Lucerne alaneMinded a’e beggar minstrel seen!The woundit side draws a’ the warld.Barbarians ha’e lizards’ een.Glesca’s a gless whaur Magdalene’sDiscovered in a million crimes.Christ comes again—wheesht, whatna bairnIn backlands cries betimes?Hard faces prate o’ their success,And pickle-makers awn the hills.There is nae life in a’ the landBut this infernal Thistle kills....Nae mair I seeAs aince I sawMysel’ in the thistleHarth and haw!Nel suo profondo vidi che s’internaLegato con amore in un volume(Or else by Hate, fu’ aft the better Love)Ciò che per l’universo si squaderna.Sustanzia ed accidenti, e lor costume.Quasi conflati insieme fer tal modo.(The michty thistle in wha’s boonds I rove)Ché ciò ch’io dico è un semplice lume.[16]And kent and was creationIn a’ its coontless forms,Or glitterin’ in raw sunlicht,Or dark wi’ hurrying storms.But what’s the voiceThat sings in me noo?—A’e hauf o’ me tellin’The tither it’s fou!It’s the voice o’ the SoothThat’s held owre langMy Viking NorthWi’ its siren sang....Fier comme un Ecossais.If a’ that I can be’s nae mairThan what mankind’s been yet, I’ll no’Begink the instincts thistlewiseThat dern—and canna show.Damned threids and thrums and skinny shapesO’ a’ that micht, and su’d, ha’ been—Life onyhow at ony price!—In sic I’ll no’ be seen!Fier comme un Ecossais.The wee reliefs we ha’e in booze,Or wun at times in carnal states,May hide frae us but canna cheengeThe silly horrors o’ oor fates.Fier—comme un Ecossais!There’s muckle in the rootThat never can wun oot,Or’t owre what is ’ud sweepLike a thunderstorm owre sheep.But shadows whiles upcreep,And heavy tremors leap ...C’wa’, Daith, again, sned Life’s vain shoot,And your ain coonsel keep!...Time like a bien wife,Truth like a dog’s gane—The bien wife’s gane to the aumrieTo get the puir dog a bane.Opens the aumrie door,And lo! the skeleton’s there,And the gude dog, Truth, has gottenBanes for evermair....Maun I tae perish in the keel o’ Heaven,And is this fratt upon the air the plyO’ cross-brath’d cordage that in gloffs and gowlsBrak’s up the vision o’ the warld’s bricht gy?Ship’s tackle and an eemis cairn o’ frauchtDarker than clamourin’ veins are roond me yet,A plait o’ shadows thicker than the flesh,A fank o’ tows that binds me hand and fit.What gin the gorded fullyery on hieAnd a’ the fanerels o’ the michty shipGi’e back mair licht than fa’s upon them ev’nGin sic black ingangs haud us in their grip?Grugous thistle, to my eenYour widdifow ramel evince,Sibness to snakes wha’s coilsRin coonter airts at yince,And fain I’d follow eachGin you the trick’ll teach.Blin’ root to bleezin’ rose,Through a’ the whirligigO’ shanks and leafs and jagsWhat sends ye sic a rig?Bramble yokin’ earth and heaven,Till they’re baith stramulyert driven!Roses to lure the liftAnd roots to wile the clayAnd wuppit brainches syneTo claught them ’midyards taeTill you’ve the precious pairLike hang’d men dancin’ there,Wi’ mony a seely prickleYou’ll fleg a sunburst oot,Or kittle earthquakes upWi’ an amusin’ root,While, kilted in your tippet,They still can mak’ their rippit....And let me pit in guid set termsMy quarrel wi’ th’owre sonsy rose,That roond aboot its devoteesA fair fat cast o’ aureole throwsThat blinds them, in its mirlygoes,To the necessity o’ foes.Upon their King and System IGlower as on things that whiles in pairtI may admire (at least for them),But wi’ nae claim upon my hert,While a’ their pleasure and their prideOotside me lies—and there maun bide.Ootside me lies—and mair than that,For I stand still for forces whichWere subjugated to mak’ wayFor England’s poo’er, and to enrichThe kinds o’ English, and o’ Scots,The least congenial to my thoughts.Hauf his soul a Scot maun useIndulgin’ in illusions,And hauf in gettin’ rid o’ themAnd comin’ to conclusionsWi’ the demoralisin’ dearthO’ onything worth while on Earth....I’m weary o’ the rose as o’ my brain,And for a deeper knowledge I am fainThan frae this noddin’ object I can gain.Beauty is a’e thing, but it tines anither(For, fegs, they never can be f’und thegither),And ’twixt the twa it’s no’ for me to swither.As frae the grun’ sae thocht frae men springs oot,A ferlie that tells little o’ its source, I doot,And has nae vera fundamental root.And cauld agen my hert are laidThe words o’ Plato when he said,“God o’ geometry is made.”Frae my ain mind I fa’ away,That never yet was feared to sayWhat turned the souls o’ men to clay,Nor cared gin truth frae me ootsprungIn ne’er a leed o’ ony tongueThat ever in a heid was hung.I ken hoo much oor life is fatedAince its first cell is animated,The fount frae which the flesh is jetted.I ken hoo lourd the body liesUpon the spirit when it fliesAnd fain abune its stars ’ud rise.And see I noo a great wheel move,And a’ the notions that I loveDrap into stented groove and groove?It maitters not my mind the day,Nocht maitters that I strive to dae,—For the wheel moves on in its ain way.I sall be moved as it decidesTo look at Life frae ither sides;Rejoice, rebel, its turn abides.And as I see the great wheel spinThere flees a licht frae’t lang and thinThat Earth is like a snaw-ba’ in.(To the uncanny thocht I clutch—The nature o’ man’s soul is suchThat it can ne’er wi’ life tine touch.Man’s mind is in God’s image made,And in its wildest dreams arrayedIn pairt o’ Truth is still displayed.Then suddenly I see as weelAs me spun roon’ within the wheel,The helpless forms o’ God and Deil.And on a birlin’ edge I seeWee Scotland squattin’ like a flea,And dizzy wi’ the speed, and me!)I’ve often thrawn the warld frae me,Into the Pool o’ Space, to seeThe Circles o’ Infinity.Or like a flat stane gar’d it skite,A Morse code message writ in lichtThat yet I couldna read arichtThe skippin’ sparks, the ripples, ritLike skritches o’ a grain o’ grit’Neth Juggernaut in which I sit.Twenty-six thoosand years it tak’sAfore a’e single roond it mak’s,And syne it melts as it were wax.The Phœnix guise ’tll rise in syneIs mair than Euclid or EinsteinCan dream o’ or’s in dreams o’ mine.Upon the huge circumference areAs neebor points the Heavenly WarThat dung doun Lucifer sae far,And that upheaval in which ISodgered ’neth the Grecian skyAnd in Italy and Marseilles,And there isna room for menWha the haill o’ history kenTo pit a pin twixt then and then.Whaur are Bannockburn and Flodden?—O’ a’e grain like facets hod’n,Little wars (twixt that which God inFocht and won, and that which HeTook baith sides in hopelessly),Less than God or I can see.By whatna cry o’ mine oottoppedSall be a’ men ha’e sung and hopedWhen to a’e note they’re telescoped?And Jesus and a nameless apeCollide and share the selfsame shapeThat nocht terrestrial can escape?But less than this nae man need try.He’d better be content to eyeThe wheel in silence whirlin’ by.Nae verse is worth a ha’et untilIt can join issue wi’ the WillThat raised the Wheel and spins it still,But a’ the music that mankind’S made yet is to the Earth confined,Poo’erless to reach the general mind,Poo’erless to reach the neist star e’en,That as a pairt o’ts sel’ is seen,And only men can tell between.Yet I exult oor sang has yetTo grow wings that’ll cairry itAyont its native speck o’ grit,And I exult to find in meThe thocht that this can ever be,A hope still for humanity.For gin the sun and mune at lastAre as a neebor’s lintel passed,The wheel’ll tine its stature fast,And birl in time inside oor heidsTill we can thraw oot conscious gleidsThat draw an answer to oor needs,Or if nae answer still we findBrichten till a’ thing is definedIn the huge licht-beams o’ oor kind,And if we still can find nae traceAhint the Wheel o’ ony Face,There’ll be a glory in the place,And we may aiblins swing contentUpon the wheel in which we’re pentIn adequate enlightenment.Nae ither thocht can mitigateThe horror o’ the endless FateA’thing ’s whirled in predestinate.O whiles I’d fain be blin’ to it,As men wha through the ages sit,And never move frae aff the bit,Wha hear a Burns or Shakespeare sing,Yet still their ain bit jingles string,As they were worth the fashioning.Whatever Scotland is to me,Be it aye pairt o’ a’ men seeO’ Earth and o’ EternityWha winna hide their heids in’t tillIt seems the haill o’ Space to fill,As t’were an unsurmounted hill.He canna Scotland see wha yetCanna see the Infinite,And Scotland in true scale to it.Nor blame I muckle, wham atourEarth’s countries blaw, a pickle stour,To sort wha’s grains they ha’e nae poo’er.E’en stars are seen thegither inA’e skime o’ licht as grey as tinFlyin’ on the wheel as t’were a pin.Syne ither systems ray on raySkinkle past in quick arrayWhile it is still the self-same day,A’e day o’ a’ the million daysThrough which the soul o’ man can gazeUpon the wheel’s incessant blaze,Upon the wheel’s incessant blazeAs it were on a single placeThat twinklin’ filled the howe o’ space.A’e point is a’ that it can be,I wis nae man ’ll ever seeThe rest o’ the rotundity.Impersonality sall blawThrough me as ’twere a bluffert o’ snawTo scour me o’ my sense o’ awe,A bluffert o’ snaw, the licht that fleesWithin the Wheel, and Freedom gi’esFrae Dust and Daith and a’ Disease,—The drumlie doom that only weighsOn them wha ha’ena seen their placeYet in creation’s lichtnin’ race,In the movement that includesAs a tide’s resistless floodsA’ their movements and their moods,—Until disinterested we,O’ a’ oor auld delusions free,Lowe in the wheel’s serenityAs conscious items in the licht,And keen to keep it clear and brichtIn which the haill machine is dight,The licht nae man has ever seenTill he has felt that he’s been gi’enThe stars themsels insteed o’ een,And often wi’ the sun has gloweredAt the white mune until it cowered,As when by new thocht auld’s o’erpowered.Oor universe is like an e’eTurned in, man’s benmaist hert to see,And swamped in subjectivity.But whether it can use its sichtTo bring what lies withoot to lichtTo answer’s still ayont my micht.But when that inturned look has brochtTo licht what still in vain it’s sochtOotward maun be the bent o’ thocht.And organs may develop syneResponsive to the need divineO’ single-minded humankin’.The function, as it seems to me,O’ Poetry is to bring to beAt lang, lang last that unity....But wae’s me on the weary wheel!Higgledy-piggledy in’t we reel,And little it cares hoo we may feel.Twenty-six thoosand years ’tll tak’For it to threid the Zodiac—A single roond o’ the wheel to mak’!Lately it turned—I saw mysel’In sic a company doomed to mell.I micht ha’e been in Dante’s Hell.It shows hoo little the best o’ menE’en o’ themsels at times can ken,—I sune sawthatwhen I gaed ben.The lesser wheel within the bigThat moves as merry as a grig,Wi’ mankind in its whirligigAnd hasna turned a’e circle yetTho’ as it turns we slide in it,And needs maun tak’ the place we get,I felt it turn, and syne I sawJohn Knox and Clavers in my raw,And Mary Queen o’ Scots ana’,And Rabbie Burns and Weelum Wallace,And Carlyle lookin’ unco gallus,And Harry Lauder (to enthrall us).And as I looked I saw them a’,A’ the Scots baith big and sma’,That e’er the braith o’ life did draw.“Mercy o’ Gode, I canna tholeWi’ sic an orra mob to roll.”—“Wheesht! It’s for the guid o’ your soul.”“But what’s the meanin’, what’s the sense?”—“Men shift but by experience.’Twixt Scots there is nae difference.They canna learn, sae canna move,But stick for aye to their auld groove—The only race in History who’veBidden in the same categoryFrae stert to present o’ their story,And deem their ignorance their glory.The mair they differ, mair the same.The wheel can whummle a’ but them,—They ca’ their obstinacy ‘Hame,’And ‘Puir Auld Scotland’ bleat wi’ pride,And wi’ their minds made up to bideA thorn in a’ the wide world’s side.There ha’e been Scots wha ha’e ha’en thochts,They’re strewn through maist o’ the various lots—Sic traitors are nae langer Scots!”“But in this huge ineducableHeterogeneous hotch and rabble,Why amIcondemned to squabble?”“A Scottish poet maun assumeThe burden o’ his people’s doom,And dee to brak’ their livin’ tomb.Mony ha’e tried, but a’ ha’e failed.Their sacrifice has nocht availed.Upon the thistle they’re impaled.You maun choose but gin ye’d seeAnither category yeMaun tine your nationality.”And I look at a’ the randomBand the wheel leaves whaur it fand ’em.“Auch, to Hell,I’ll tak’ it to avizandum.” ...O wae’s me on the weary wheel,And fain I’d understand them!And blessin’ on the weary wheelWhaurever it may land them!...But aince Jean kens what I’ve been throughThe nicht, I dinna doot it,She’ll ope her airms in welcome true,And clack nae mair aboot it....* * * * * * *The stars like thistle’s roses floo’erThe sterile growth o’ Space ootour,That clad in bitter blasts spreids ootFrae me, the sustenance o’ its root.O fain I’d keep my hert entire,Fain hain the licht o’ my desire,But ech! the shinin’ streams ascend,And leave me empty at the end.For aince it’s toomed my hert and brain,The thistle needs maun fa’ again.—But a’ its growth ’ll never fillThe hole it’s turned my life intill!...Yet ha’e I Silence left, the croon o’ a’.No’ her, wha on the hills langsyne I sawLiftin’ a foreheid o’ perpetual snaw.No’ her, wha in the how-dumb-deid o’ nichtKyths, like Eternity in Time’s despite.No’ her, withooten shape, wha’s name is Daith,No’ Him, unkennable abies to faith—God whom, gin e’er He saw a man, ’ud beE’en mair dumfooner’d at the sicht than he.—But Him, whom nocht in man or Deity,Or Daith or Dreid or Laneliness can touch,Wha’s deed owre often and has seen owre much.O I ha’e Silence left,—“And weel ye micht,”Sae Jean’ll say, “efter sic a nicht!”
And gethers there in drift on endless drift,Oor broken herts that it can never fill;And still—its leafs like snaw, its growth like wund.—The thistle rises and forever will!...
And gethers there in drift on endless drift,
Oor broken herts that it can never fill;
And still—its leafs like snaw, its growth like wund.—
The thistle rises and forever will!...
The thistle rises and forever will,Getherin’ the generations under’t.This is the monument o’ a’ they were,And a’ they hoped and wondered.
The thistle rises and forever will,
Getherin’ the generations under’t.
This is the monument o’ a’ they were,
And a’ they hoped and wondered.
The barren tree, dry leafs, and cracklin’ thorns,This is the mind o’ a’ humanity,—The empty intellect that left to grow’ll let nocht ither be.
The barren tree, dry leafs, and cracklin’ thorns,
This is the mind o’ a’ humanity,
—The empty intellect that left to grow
’ll let nocht ither be.
Lo! It has choked the sunlicht’s gowden grain,And strangled syne the white hairst o’ the mune.Thocht that mak’s a’ the food o’ nocht but ThochtIs reishlin’ grey abune....
Lo! It has choked the sunlicht’s gowden grain,
And strangled syne the white hairst o’ the mune.
Thocht that mak’s a’ the food o’ nocht but Thocht
Is reishlin’ grey abune....
O fitly frae oor cancerous soilMay this heraldic horror rise!The Presbyterian thistle flourishes,And its ain roses crucifies....
O fitly frae oor cancerous soil
May this heraldic horror rise!
The Presbyterian thistle flourishes,
And its ain roses crucifies....
No’ Edinburgh Castle or the fieldsO’ Bannockburn or FloddenAre dernin’ wi’ the miskent soulScotland sae lang has hod’n.
No’ Edinburgh Castle or the fields
O’ Bannockburn or Flodden
Are dernin’ wi’ the miskent soul
Scotland sae lang has hod’n.
It hands nae pew in ony kirk,The soul Christ cam’ to save;Nae R.S.A.’s ha’e pentit it,F.S.A.’s fund its grave.
It hands nae pew in ony kirk,
The soul Christ cam’ to save;
Nae R.S.A.’s ha’e pentit it,
F.S.A.’s fund its grave.
Is it alive or deid? I showMy hert—wha will can see.The secret clyre in Scotland’s lifeHas brust and reams through me,
Is it alive or deid? I show
My hert—wha will can see.
The secret clyre in Scotland’s life
Has brust and reams through me,
A whummlin’ sea in which is heardThe clunk o’ nameless banes;A grisly thistle dirlin’ shrillAbune the broken stanes.
A whummlin’ sea in which is heard
The clunk o’ nameless banes;
A grisly thistle dirlin’ shrill
Abune the broken stanes.
Westminster Abbey nor the Fleet,Nor England’s Constitution, butIn a’ the michty city there,You mind a’e fleggit slut,
Westminster Abbey nor the Fleet,
Nor England’s Constitution, but
In a’ the michty city there,
You mind a’e fleggit slut,
As Tolstoi o’ Lucerne alaneMinded a’e beggar minstrel seen!The woundit side draws a’ the warld.Barbarians ha’e lizards’ een.
As Tolstoi o’ Lucerne alane
Minded a’e beggar minstrel seen!
The woundit side draws a’ the warld.
Barbarians ha’e lizards’ een.
Glesca’s a gless whaur Magdalene’sDiscovered in a million crimes.Christ comes again—wheesht, whatna bairnIn backlands cries betimes?
Glesca’s a gless whaur Magdalene’s
Discovered in a million crimes.
Christ comes again—wheesht, whatna bairn
In backlands cries betimes?
Hard faces prate o’ their success,And pickle-makers awn the hills.There is nae life in a’ the landBut this infernal Thistle kills....
Hard faces prate o’ their success,
And pickle-makers awn the hills.
There is nae life in a’ the land
But this infernal Thistle kills....
Nae mair I seeAs aince I sawMysel’ in the thistleHarth and haw!
Nae mair I see
As aince I saw
Mysel’ in the thistle
Harth and haw!
Nel suo profondo vidi che s’internaLegato con amore in un volume(Or else by Hate, fu’ aft the better Love)Ciò che per l’universo si squaderna.
Nel suo profondo vidi che s’interna
Legato con amore in un volume
(Or else by Hate, fu’ aft the better Love)
Ciò che per l’universo si squaderna.
Sustanzia ed accidenti, e lor costume.Quasi conflati insieme fer tal modo.(The michty thistle in wha’s boonds I rove)Ché ciò ch’io dico è un semplice lume.[16]
Sustanzia ed accidenti, e lor costume.
Quasi conflati insieme fer tal modo.
(The michty thistle in wha’s boonds I rove)
Ché ciò ch’io dico è un semplice lume.[16]
And kent and was creationIn a’ its coontless forms,Or glitterin’ in raw sunlicht,Or dark wi’ hurrying storms.
And kent and was creation
In a’ its coontless forms,
Or glitterin’ in raw sunlicht,
Or dark wi’ hurrying storms.
But what’s the voiceThat sings in me noo?—A’e hauf o’ me tellin’The tither it’s fou!
But what’s the voice
That sings in me noo?
—A’e hauf o’ me tellin’
The tither it’s fou!
It’s the voice o’ the SoothThat’s held owre langMy Viking NorthWi’ its siren sang....
It’s the voice o’ the Sooth
That’s held owre lang
My Viking North
Wi’ its siren sang....
Fier comme un Ecossais.
Fier comme un Ecossais.
If a’ that I can be’s nae mairThan what mankind’s been yet, I’ll no’Begink the instincts thistlewiseThat dern—and canna show.
If a’ that I can be’s nae mair
Than what mankind’s been yet, I’ll no’
Begink the instincts thistlewise
That dern—and canna show.
Damned threids and thrums and skinny shapesO’ a’ that micht, and su’d, ha’ been—Life onyhow at ony price!—In sic I’ll no’ be seen!
Damned threids and thrums and skinny shapes
O’ a’ that micht, and su’d, ha’ been
—Life onyhow at ony price!—
In sic I’ll no’ be seen!
Fier comme un Ecossais.
Fier comme un Ecossais.
The wee reliefs we ha’e in booze,Or wun at times in carnal states,May hide frae us but canna cheengeThe silly horrors o’ oor fates.
The wee reliefs we ha’e in booze,
Or wun at times in carnal states,
May hide frae us but canna cheenge
The silly horrors o’ oor fates.
Fier—comme un Ecossais!
Fier—comme un Ecossais!
There’s muckle in the rootThat never can wun oot,Or’t owre what is ’ud sweepLike a thunderstorm owre sheep.
There’s muckle in the root
That never can wun oot,
Or’t owre what is ’ud sweep
Like a thunderstorm owre sheep.
But shadows whiles upcreep,And heavy tremors leap ...C’wa’, Daith, again, sned Life’s vain shoot,And your ain coonsel keep!...
But shadows whiles upcreep,
And heavy tremors leap ...
C’wa’, Daith, again, sned Life’s vain shoot,
And your ain coonsel keep!...
Time like a bien wife,Truth like a dog’s gane—The bien wife’s gane to the aumrieTo get the puir dog a bane.
Time like a bien wife,
Truth like a dog’s gane—
The bien wife’s gane to the aumrie
To get the puir dog a bane.
Opens the aumrie door,And lo! the skeleton’s there,And the gude dog, Truth, has gottenBanes for evermair....
Opens the aumrie door,
And lo! the skeleton’s there,
And the gude dog, Truth, has gotten
Banes for evermair....
Maun I tae perish in the keel o’ Heaven,And is this fratt upon the air the plyO’ cross-brath’d cordage that in gloffs and gowlsBrak’s up the vision o’ the warld’s bricht gy?
Maun I tae perish in the keel o’ Heaven,
And is this fratt upon the air the ply
O’ cross-brath’d cordage that in gloffs and gowls
Brak’s up the vision o’ the warld’s bricht gy?
Ship’s tackle and an eemis cairn o’ frauchtDarker than clamourin’ veins are roond me yet,A plait o’ shadows thicker than the flesh,A fank o’ tows that binds me hand and fit.
Ship’s tackle and an eemis cairn o’ fraucht
Darker than clamourin’ veins are roond me yet,
A plait o’ shadows thicker than the flesh,
A fank o’ tows that binds me hand and fit.
What gin the gorded fullyery on hieAnd a’ the fanerels o’ the michty shipGi’e back mair licht than fa’s upon them ev’nGin sic black ingangs haud us in their grip?
What gin the gorded fullyery on hie
And a’ the fanerels o’ the michty ship
Gi’e back mair licht than fa’s upon them ev’n
Gin sic black ingangs haud us in their grip?
Grugous thistle, to my eenYour widdifow ramel evince,Sibness to snakes wha’s coilsRin coonter airts at yince,And fain I’d follow eachGin you the trick’ll teach.
Grugous thistle, to my een
Your widdifow ramel evince,
Sibness to snakes wha’s coils
Rin coonter airts at yince,
And fain I’d follow each
Gin you the trick’ll teach.
Blin’ root to bleezin’ rose,Through a’ the whirligigO’ shanks and leafs and jagsWhat sends ye sic a rig?Bramble yokin’ earth and heaven,Till they’re baith stramulyert driven!
Blin’ root to bleezin’ rose,
Through a’ the whirligig
O’ shanks and leafs and jags
What sends ye sic a rig?
Bramble yokin’ earth and heaven,
Till they’re baith stramulyert driven!
Roses to lure the liftAnd roots to wile the clayAnd wuppit brainches syneTo claught them ’midyards taeTill you’ve the precious pairLike hang’d men dancin’ there,
Roses to lure the lift
And roots to wile the clay
And wuppit brainches syne
To claught them ’midyards tae
Till you’ve the precious pair
Like hang’d men dancin’ there,
Wi’ mony a seely prickleYou’ll fleg a sunburst oot,Or kittle earthquakes upWi’ an amusin’ root,While, kilted in your tippet,They still can mak’ their rippit....
Wi’ mony a seely prickle
You’ll fleg a sunburst oot,
Or kittle earthquakes up
Wi’ an amusin’ root,
While, kilted in your tippet,
They still can mak’ their rippit....
And let me pit in guid set termsMy quarrel wi’ th’owre sonsy rose,That roond aboot its devoteesA fair fat cast o’ aureole throwsThat blinds them, in its mirlygoes,To the necessity o’ foes.
And let me pit in guid set terms
My quarrel wi’ th’owre sonsy rose,
That roond aboot its devotees
A fair fat cast o’ aureole throws
That blinds them, in its mirlygoes,
To the necessity o’ foes.
Upon their King and System IGlower as on things that whiles in pairtI may admire (at least for them),But wi’ nae claim upon my hert,While a’ their pleasure and their prideOotside me lies—and there maun bide.
Upon their King and System I
Glower as on things that whiles in pairt
I may admire (at least for them),
But wi’ nae claim upon my hert,
While a’ their pleasure and their pride
Ootside me lies—and there maun bide.
Ootside me lies—and mair than that,For I stand still for forces whichWere subjugated to mak’ wayFor England’s poo’er, and to enrichThe kinds o’ English, and o’ Scots,The least congenial to my thoughts.
Ootside me lies—and mair than that,
For I stand still for forces which
Were subjugated to mak’ way
For England’s poo’er, and to enrich
The kinds o’ English, and o’ Scots,
The least congenial to my thoughts.
Hauf his soul a Scot maun useIndulgin’ in illusions,And hauf in gettin’ rid o’ themAnd comin’ to conclusionsWi’ the demoralisin’ dearthO’ onything worth while on Earth....
Hauf his soul a Scot maun use
Indulgin’ in illusions,
And hauf in gettin’ rid o’ them
And comin’ to conclusions
Wi’ the demoralisin’ dearth
O’ onything worth while on Earth....
I’m weary o’ the rose as o’ my brain,And for a deeper knowledge I am fainThan frae this noddin’ object I can gain.
I’m weary o’ the rose as o’ my brain,
And for a deeper knowledge I am fain
Than frae this noddin’ object I can gain.
Beauty is a’e thing, but it tines anither(For, fegs, they never can be f’und thegither),And ’twixt the twa it’s no’ for me to swither.
Beauty is a’e thing, but it tines anither
(For, fegs, they never can be f’und thegither),
And ’twixt the twa it’s no’ for me to swither.
As frae the grun’ sae thocht frae men springs oot,A ferlie that tells little o’ its source, I doot,And has nae vera fundamental root.
As frae the grun’ sae thocht frae men springs oot,
A ferlie that tells little o’ its source, I doot,
And has nae vera fundamental root.
And cauld agen my hert are laidThe words o’ Plato when he said,“God o’ geometry is made.”
And cauld agen my hert are laid
The words o’ Plato when he said,
“God o’ geometry is made.”
Frae my ain mind I fa’ away,That never yet was feared to sayWhat turned the souls o’ men to clay,
Frae my ain mind I fa’ away,
That never yet was feared to say
What turned the souls o’ men to clay,
Nor cared gin truth frae me ootsprungIn ne’er a leed o’ ony tongueThat ever in a heid was hung.
Nor cared gin truth frae me ootsprung
In ne’er a leed o’ ony tongue
That ever in a heid was hung.
I ken hoo much oor life is fatedAince its first cell is animated,The fount frae which the flesh is jetted.
I ken hoo much oor life is fated
Aince its first cell is animated,
The fount frae which the flesh is jetted.
I ken hoo lourd the body liesUpon the spirit when it fliesAnd fain abune its stars ’ud rise.
I ken hoo lourd the body lies
Upon the spirit when it flies
And fain abune its stars ’ud rise.
And see I noo a great wheel move,And a’ the notions that I loveDrap into stented groove and groove?
And see I noo a great wheel move,
And a’ the notions that I love
Drap into stented groove and groove?
It maitters not my mind the day,Nocht maitters that I strive to dae,—For the wheel moves on in its ain way.
It maitters not my mind the day,
Nocht maitters that I strive to dae,
—For the wheel moves on in its ain way.
I sall be moved as it decidesTo look at Life frae ither sides;Rejoice, rebel, its turn abides.
I sall be moved as it decides
To look at Life frae ither sides;
Rejoice, rebel, its turn abides.
And as I see the great wheel spinThere flees a licht frae’t lang and thinThat Earth is like a snaw-ba’ in.
And as I see the great wheel spin
There flees a licht frae’t lang and thin
That Earth is like a snaw-ba’ in.
(To the uncanny thocht I clutch—The nature o’ man’s soul is suchThat it can ne’er wi’ life tine touch.
(To the uncanny thocht I clutch
—The nature o’ man’s soul is such
That it can ne’er wi’ life tine touch.
Man’s mind is in God’s image made,And in its wildest dreams arrayedIn pairt o’ Truth is still displayed.
Man’s mind is in God’s image made,
And in its wildest dreams arrayed
In pairt o’ Truth is still displayed.
Then suddenly I see as weelAs me spun roon’ within the wheel,The helpless forms o’ God and Deil.
Then suddenly I see as weel
As me spun roon’ within the wheel,
The helpless forms o’ God and Deil.
And on a birlin’ edge I seeWee Scotland squattin’ like a flea,And dizzy wi’ the speed, and me!)
And on a birlin’ edge I see
Wee Scotland squattin’ like a flea,
And dizzy wi’ the speed, and me!)
I’ve often thrawn the warld frae me,Into the Pool o’ Space, to seeThe Circles o’ Infinity.
I’ve often thrawn the warld frae me,
Into the Pool o’ Space, to see
The Circles o’ Infinity.
Or like a flat stane gar’d it skite,A Morse code message writ in lichtThat yet I couldna read aricht
Or like a flat stane gar’d it skite,
A Morse code message writ in licht
That yet I couldna read aricht
The skippin’ sparks, the ripples, ritLike skritches o’ a grain o’ grit’Neth Juggernaut in which I sit.
The skippin’ sparks, the ripples, rit
Like skritches o’ a grain o’ grit
’Neth Juggernaut in which I sit.
Twenty-six thoosand years it tak’sAfore a’e single roond it mak’s,And syne it melts as it were wax.
Twenty-six thoosand years it tak’s
Afore a’e single roond it mak’s,
And syne it melts as it were wax.
The Phœnix guise ’tll rise in syneIs mair than Euclid or EinsteinCan dream o’ or’s in dreams o’ mine.
The Phœnix guise ’tll rise in syne
Is mair than Euclid or Einstein
Can dream o’ or’s in dreams o’ mine.
Upon the huge circumference areAs neebor points the Heavenly WarThat dung doun Lucifer sae far,
Upon the huge circumference are
As neebor points the Heavenly War
That dung doun Lucifer sae far,
And that upheaval in which ISodgered ’neth the Grecian skyAnd in Italy and Marseilles,
And that upheaval in which I
Sodgered ’neth the Grecian sky
And in Italy and Marseilles,
And there isna room for menWha the haill o’ history kenTo pit a pin twixt then and then.
And there isna room for men
Wha the haill o’ history ken
To pit a pin twixt then and then.
Whaur are Bannockburn and Flodden?—O’ a’e grain like facets hod’n,Little wars (twixt that which God in
Whaur are Bannockburn and Flodden?
—O’ a’e grain like facets hod’n,
Little wars (twixt that which God in
Focht and won, and that which HeTook baith sides in hopelessly),Less than God or I can see.
Focht and won, and that which He
Took baith sides in hopelessly),
Less than God or I can see.
By whatna cry o’ mine oottoppedSall be a’ men ha’e sung and hopedWhen to a’e note they’re telescoped?
By whatna cry o’ mine oottopped
Sall be a’ men ha’e sung and hoped
When to a’e note they’re telescoped?
And Jesus and a nameless apeCollide and share the selfsame shapeThat nocht terrestrial can escape?
And Jesus and a nameless ape
Collide and share the selfsame shape
That nocht terrestrial can escape?
But less than this nae man need try.He’d better be content to eyeThe wheel in silence whirlin’ by.
But less than this nae man need try.
He’d better be content to eye
The wheel in silence whirlin’ by.
Nae verse is worth a ha’et untilIt can join issue wi’ the WillThat raised the Wheel and spins it still,
Nae verse is worth a ha’et until
It can join issue wi’ the Will
That raised the Wheel and spins it still,
But a’ the music that mankind’S made yet is to the Earth confined,Poo’erless to reach the general mind,
But a’ the music that mankind
’S made yet is to the Earth confined,
Poo’erless to reach the general mind,
Poo’erless to reach the neist star e’en,That as a pairt o’ts sel’ is seen,And only men can tell between.
Poo’erless to reach the neist star e’en,
That as a pairt o’ts sel’ is seen,
And only men can tell between.
Yet I exult oor sang has yetTo grow wings that’ll cairry itAyont its native speck o’ grit,
Yet I exult oor sang has yet
To grow wings that’ll cairry it
Ayont its native speck o’ grit,
And I exult to find in meThe thocht that this can ever be,A hope still for humanity.
And I exult to find in me
The thocht that this can ever be,
A hope still for humanity.
For gin the sun and mune at lastAre as a neebor’s lintel passed,The wheel’ll tine its stature fast,
For gin the sun and mune at last
Are as a neebor’s lintel passed,
The wheel’ll tine its stature fast,
And birl in time inside oor heidsTill we can thraw oot conscious gleidsThat draw an answer to oor needs,
And birl in time inside oor heids
Till we can thraw oot conscious gleids
That draw an answer to oor needs,
Or if nae answer still we findBrichten till a’ thing is definedIn the huge licht-beams o’ oor kind,
Or if nae answer still we find
Brichten till a’ thing is defined
In the huge licht-beams o’ oor kind,
And if we still can find nae traceAhint the Wheel o’ ony Face,There’ll be a glory in the place,
And if we still can find nae trace
Ahint the Wheel o’ ony Face,
There’ll be a glory in the place,
And we may aiblins swing contentUpon the wheel in which we’re pentIn adequate enlightenment.
And we may aiblins swing content
Upon the wheel in which we’re pent
In adequate enlightenment.
Nae ither thocht can mitigateThe horror o’ the endless FateA’thing ’s whirled in predestinate.
Nae ither thocht can mitigate
The horror o’ the endless Fate
A’thing ’s whirled in predestinate.
O whiles I’d fain be blin’ to it,As men wha through the ages sit,And never move frae aff the bit,
O whiles I’d fain be blin’ to it,
As men wha through the ages sit,
And never move frae aff the bit,
Wha hear a Burns or Shakespeare sing,Yet still their ain bit jingles string,As they were worth the fashioning.
Wha hear a Burns or Shakespeare sing,
Yet still their ain bit jingles string,
As they were worth the fashioning.
Whatever Scotland is to me,Be it aye pairt o’ a’ men seeO’ Earth and o’ Eternity
Whatever Scotland is to me,
Be it aye pairt o’ a’ men see
O’ Earth and o’ Eternity
Wha winna hide their heids in’t tillIt seems the haill o’ Space to fill,As t’were an unsurmounted hill.
Wha winna hide their heids in’t till
It seems the haill o’ Space to fill,
As t’were an unsurmounted hill.
He canna Scotland see wha yetCanna see the Infinite,And Scotland in true scale to it.
He canna Scotland see wha yet
Canna see the Infinite,
And Scotland in true scale to it.
Nor blame I muckle, wham atourEarth’s countries blaw, a pickle stour,To sort wha’s grains they ha’e nae poo’er.
Nor blame I muckle, wham atour
Earth’s countries blaw, a pickle stour,
To sort wha’s grains they ha’e nae poo’er.
E’en stars are seen thegither inA’e skime o’ licht as grey as tinFlyin’ on the wheel as t’were a pin.
E’en stars are seen thegither in
A’e skime o’ licht as grey as tin
Flyin’ on the wheel as t’were a pin.
Syne ither systems ray on raySkinkle past in quick arrayWhile it is still the self-same day,
Syne ither systems ray on ray
Skinkle past in quick array
While it is still the self-same day,
A’e day o’ a’ the million daysThrough which the soul o’ man can gazeUpon the wheel’s incessant blaze,
A’e day o’ a’ the million days
Through which the soul o’ man can gaze
Upon the wheel’s incessant blaze,
Upon the wheel’s incessant blazeAs it were on a single placeThat twinklin’ filled the howe o’ space.
Upon the wheel’s incessant blaze
As it were on a single place
That twinklin’ filled the howe o’ space.
A’e point is a’ that it can be,I wis nae man ’ll ever seeThe rest o’ the rotundity.
A’e point is a’ that it can be,
I wis nae man ’ll ever see
The rest o’ the rotundity.
Impersonality sall blawThrough me as ’twere a bluffert o’ snawTo scour me o’ my sense o’ awe,
Impersonality sall blaw
Through me as ’twere a bluffert o’ snaw
To scour me o’ my sense o’ awe,
A bluffert o’ snaw, the licht that fleesWithin the Wheel, and Freedom gi’esFrae Dust and Daith and a’ Disease,
A bluffert o’ snaw, the licht that flees
Within the Wheel, and Freedom gi’es
Frae Dust and Daith and a’ Disease,
—The drumlie doom that only weighsOn them wha ha’ena seen their placeYet in creation’s lichtnin’ race,
—The drumlie doom that only weighs
On them wha ha’ena seen their place
Yet in creation’s lichtnin’ race,
In the movement that includesAs a tide’s resistless floodsA’ their movements and their moods,—
In the movement that includes
As a tide’s resistless floods
A’ their movements and their moods,—
Until disinterested we,O’ a’ oor auld delusions free,Lowe in the wheel’s serenity
Until disinterested we,
O’ a’ oor auld delusions free,
Lowe in the wheel’s serenity
As conscious items in the licht,And keen to keep it clear and brichtIn which the haill machine is dight,
As conscious items in the licht,
And keen to keep it clear and bricht
In which the haill machine is dight,
The licht nae man has ever seenTill he has felt that he’s been gi’enThe stars themsels insteed o’ een,
The licht nae man has ever seen
Till he has felt that he’s been gi’en
The stars themsels insteed o’ een,
And often wi’ the sun has gloweredAt the white mune until it cowered,As when by new thocht auld’s o’erpowered.
And often wi’ the sun has glowered
At the white mune until it cowered,
As when by new thocht auld’s o’erpowered.
Oor universe is like an e’eTurned in, man’s benmaist hert to see,And swamped in subjectivity.
Oor universe is like an e’e
Turned in, man’s benmaist hert to see,
And swamped in subjectivity.
But whether it can use its sichtTo bring what lies withoot to lichtTo answer’s still ayont my micht.
But whether it can use its sicht
To bring what lies withoot to licht
To answer’s still ayont my micht.
But when that inturned look has brochtTo licht what still in vain it’s sochtOotward maun be the bent o’ thocht.
But when that inturned look has brocht
To licht what still in vain it’s socht
Ootward maun be the bent o’ thocht.
And organs may develop syneResponsive to the need divineO’ single-minded humankin’.
And organs may develop syne
Responsive to the need divine
O’ single-minded humankin’.
The function, as it seems to me,O’ Poetry is to bring to beAt lang, lang last that unity....
The function, as it seems to me,
O’ Poetry is to bring to be
At lang, lang last that unity....
But wae’s me on the weary wheel!Higgledy-piggledy in’t we reel,And little it cares hoo we may feel.
But wae’s me on the weary wheel!
Higgledy-piggledy in’t we reel,
And little it cares hoo we may feel.
Twenty-six thoosand years ’tll tak’For it to threid the Zodiac—A single roond o’ the wheel to mak’!
Twenty-six thoosand years ’tll tak’
For it to threid the Zodiac
—A single roond o’ the wheel to mak’!
Lately it turned—I saw mysel’In sic a company doomed to mell.I micht ha’e been in Dante’s Hell.
Lately it turned—I saw mysel’
In sic a company doomed to mell.
I micht ha’e been in Dante’s Hell.
It shows hoo little the best o’ menE’en o’ themsels at times can ken,—I sune sawthatwhen I gaed ben.
It shows hoo little the best o’ men
E’en o’ themsels at times can ken,
—I sune sawthatwhen I gaed ben.
The lesser wheel within the bigThat moves as merry as a grig,Wi’ mankind in its whirligig
The lesser wheel within the big
That moves as merry as a grig,
Wi’ mankind in its whirligig
And hasna turned a’e circle yetTho’ as it turns we slide in it,And needs maun tak’ the place we get,
And hasna turned a’e circle yet
Tho’ as it turns we slide in it,
And needs maun tak’ the place we get,
I felt it turn, and syne I sawJohn Knox and Clavers in my raw,And Mary Queen o’ Scots ana’,
I felt it turn, and syne I saw
John Knox and Clavers in my raw,
And Mary Queen o’ Scots ana’,
And Rabbie Burns and Weelum Wallace,And Carlyle lookin’ unco gallus,And Harry Lauder (to enthrall us).
And Rabbie Burns and Weelum Wallace,
And Carlyle lookin’ unco gallus,
And Harry Lauder (to enthrall us).
And as I looked I saw them a’,A’ the Scots baith big and sma’,That e’er the braith o’ life did draw.
And as I looked I saw them a’,
A’ the Scots baith big and sma’,
That e’er the braith o’ life did draw.
“Mercy o’ Gode, I canna tholeWi’ sic an orra mob to roll.”—“Wheesht! It’s for the guid o’ your soul.”
“Mercy o’ Gode, I canna thole
Wi’ sic an orra mob to roll.”
—“Wheesht! It’s for the guid o’ your soul.”
“But what’s the meanin’, what’s the sense?”—“Men shift but by experience.’Twixt Scots there is nae difference.
“But what’s the meanin’, what’s the sense?”
—“Men shift but by experience.
’Twixt Scots there is nae difference.
They canna learn, sae canna move,But stick for aye to their auld groove—The only race in History who’ve
They canna learn, sae canna move,
But stick for aye to their auld groove
—The only race in History who’ve
Bidden in the same categoryFrae stert to present o’ their story,And deem their ignorance their glory.
Bidden in the same category
Frae stert to present o’ their story,
And deem their ignorance their glory.
The mair they differ, mair the same.The wheel can whummle a’ but them,—They ca’ their obstinacy ‘Hame,’
The mair they differ, mair the same.
The wheel can whummle a’ but them,
—They ca’ their obstinacy ‘Hame,’
And ‘Puir Auld Scotland’ bleat wi’ pride,And wi’ their minds made up to bideA thorn in a’ the wide world’s side.
And ‘Puir Auld Scotland’ bleat wi’ pride,
And wi’ their minds made up to bide
A thorn in a’ the wide world’s side.
There ha’e been Scots wha ha’e ha’en thochts,They’re strewn through maist o’ the various lots—Sic traitors are nae langer Scots!”
There ha’e been Scots wha ha’e ha’en thochts,
They’re strewn through maist o’ the various lots
—Sic traitors are nae langer Scots!”
“But in this huge ineducableHeterogeneous hotch and rabble,Why amIcondemned to squabble?”
“But in this huge ineducable
Heterogeneous hotch and rabble,
Why amIcondemned to squabble?”
“A Scottish poet maun assumeThe burden o’ his people’s doom,And dee to brak’ their livin’ tomb.
“A Scottish poet maun assume
The burden o’ his people’s doom,
And dee to brak’ their livin’ tomb.
Mony ha’e tried, but a’ ha’e failed.Their sacrifice has nocht availed.Upon the thistle they’re impaled.
Mony ha’e tried, but a’ ha’e failed.
Their sacrifice has nocht availed.
Upon the thistle they’re impaled.
You maun choose but gin ye’d seeAnither category yeMaun tine your nationality.”
You maun choose but gin ye’d see
Anither category ye
Maun tine your nationality.”
And I look at a’ the randomBand the wheel leaves whaur it fand ’em.“Auch, to Hell,I’ll tak’ it to avizandum.” ...
And I look at a’ the random
Band the wheel leaves whaur it fand ’em.
“Auch, to Hell,
I’ll tak’ it to avizandum.” ...
O wae’s me on the weary wheel,And fain I’d understand them!
O wae’s me on the weary wheel,
And fain I’d understand them!
And blessin’ on the weary wheelWhaurever it may land them!...
And blessin’ on the weary wheel
Whaurever it may land them!...
But aince Jean kens what I’ve been throughThe nicht, I dinna doot it,She’ll ope her airms in welcome true,And clack nae mair aboot it....
But aince Jean kens what I’ve been through
The nicht, I dinna doot it,
She’ll ope her airms in welcome true,
And clack nae mair aboot it....
* * * * * * *
* * * * * * *
The stars like thistle’s roses floo’erThe sterile growth o’ Space ootour,That clad in bitter blasts spreids ootFrae me, the sustenance o’ its root.
The stars like thistle’s roses floo’er
The sterile growth o’ Space ootour,
That clad in bitter blasts spreids oot
Frae me, the sustenance o’ its root.
O fain I’d keep my hert entire,Fain hain the licht o’ my desire,But ech! the shinin’ streams ascend,And leave me empty at the end.
O fain I’d keep my hert entire,
Fain hain the licht o’ my desire,
But ech! the shinin’ streams ascend,
And leave me empty at the end.
For aince it’s toomed my hert and brain,The thistle needs maun fa’ again.—But a’ its growth ’ll never fillThe hole it’s turned my life intill!...
For aince it’s toomed my hert and brain,
The thistle needs maun fa’ again.
—But a’ its growth ’ll never fill
The hole it’s turned my life intill!...
Yet ha’e I Silence left, the croon o’ a’.
Yet ha’e I Silence left, the croon o’ a’.
No’ her, wha on the hills langsyne I sawLiftin’ a foreheid o’ perpetual snaw.
No’ her, wha on the hills langsyne I saw
Liftin’ a foreheid o’ perpetual snaw.
No’ her, wha in the how-dumb-deid o’ nichtKyths, like Eternity in Time’s despite.
No’ her, wha in the how-dumb-deid o’ nicht
Kyths, like Eternity in Time’s despite.
No’ her, withooten shape, wha’s name is Daith,No’ Him, unkennable abies to faith
No’ her, withooten shape, wha’s name is Daith,
No’ Him, unkennable abies to faith
—God whom, gin e’er He saw a man, ’ud beE’en mair dumfooner’d at the sicht than he.
—God whom, gin e’er He saw a man, ’ud be
E’en mair dumfooner’d at the sicht than he.
—But Him, whom nocht in man or Deity,Or Daith or Dreid or Laneliness can touch,Wha’s deed owre often and has seen owre much.
—But Him, whom nocht in man or Deity,
Or Daith or Dreid or Laneliness can touch,
Wha’s deed owre often and has seen owre much.
O I ha’e Silence left,
O I ha’e Silence left,
—“And weel ye micht,”Sae Jean’ll say, “efter sic a nicht!”
—“And weel ye micht,”
Sae Jean’ll say, “efter sic a nicht!”