The Project Gutenberg eBook of A drunk man looks at the thistle

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: A drunk man looks at the thistle

Author: Hugh MacDiarmid

Release date: January 15, 2024 [eBook #72731]

Language: English

Original publication: Edinburgh: William Blackwood & Sons, 1926

Credits: Aaron Adrignola, Tim Lindell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A DRUNK MAN LOOKS AT THE THISTLE ***

A Drunk Man Looks At

The Thistle

BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

- SANGSCHAW. (1925.) 5/-

- PENNY WHEEP. (1926.) 5/-

IN PREPARATION.

- TO CIRCUMJACK CENCRASTUS.

A Drunk Man Looks At

The Thistle

BY

HUGH M’DIARMID

AUTHOR OF ‘SANGSCHAW,’ ETC.

Vast imbecile mentality of those

Who cannot tell a thistle from a rose,

This is for others.

—SACHEVERELL SITWELL.

WILLIAM BLACKWOOD & SONS LTD.

EDINBURGH AND LONDON

1926

Printed in Great Britain                All Rights reserved

TO

F. G. SCOTT.

Can ratt-rime and ragments o’ quenry

And recoll o’ Gillha’ requite

Your faburdoun, figuration, and gemmell,

And prick-sangs’ delight?

Tho’ you’ve cappilowed me in the reapin’

—And yours was a bursten kirn tae!—

Yet you share your advantage wi’ me

In the end o’ the day.

And my flytin’ and sclatrie sall be

Wi’ your fantice and mocage entwined

As the bauch Earth is wi’ the lift

Or fate wi’ mankind!

AUTHOR’S NOTE.

This gallimaufry is dedicated to my friend, Francis George Scott, the composer, who suggested it, and to whom, during the course of writing it, I have been further greatly indebted for co-operative suggestions and for some of the most penetrating and comprehensive of modern European criticism.

I would gratefully acknowledge, too, the assistance I have received from my friend, Dr Pittendrigh Macgillivray, and from my wife, in the revision of proofs.

To the Editor of ‘The Glasgow Herald’ I have to tender the customary acknowledgements for his kindness in allowing me to republish here certain portions of my poem which originally appeared in his columns.

Drunkenness has a logic of its own with which, even in these decadent days, I believe a sufficient minority of my countrymen remain au fait. I would, however, take the liberty of counselling the others, who have no personal experience or sympathetic imagination to guide them, to be chary of attaching any exaggerated importance, in relation to my book as a whole, to such inadvertent reflections of their own sober minds as they may from time to time—as in a distorting mirror—detect in these pages, and of attempting, in, no doubt, a spirit of real helpfulness, to confer, on the basis of these, a species of intelligibility foreign to its nature, upon my poem. It would have been only further misleading these good folks, therefore, if I had (as, arbitrarily enough at best, I might have done) divided my poem into sections or in other ways supplied any of those “hand-rails” which raise false hopes in the ingenuous minds of readers whose rational intelligences are all too insusceptible of realising the enormities of which “highbrows” of my type are capable—even in Scotland.

I would suggest, on the other hand, if I may, that they should avoid subtleties and simply persist in the pretence that my “synthetic Scots” presents insuperable difficulties to understanding, while continuing to espouse with all the impressiveness at their command the counter-claims of “sensible poetry.”

The whole thing must, of course, be pronounced more Boreali.

H. M’D.

A DRUNK MAN LOOKS AT THE THISTLE.

I amna’ fou’ sae muckle as tired—deid dune.

It’s gey and hard wark’ coupin’ gless for gless

Wi’ Cruivie and Gilsanquhar and the like,

And I’m no’ juist as bauld as aince I wes.

The elbuck fankles in the coorse o’ time,

The sheckle’s no’ sae souple, and the thrapple

Grows deef and dour: nae langer up and doun

Gleg as a squirrel speils the Adam’s apple.

Forbye, the stuffie’s no’ the real Mackay.

The sun’s sel’ aince, as sune as ye began it,

Riz in your vera saul: but what keeks in

Noo is in truth the vilest “saxpenny planet.”

And as the worth’s gane doun the cost has risen.

Yin canna thow the cockles o’ yin’s hert

Wi’oot ha’en’ cauld feet noo, jalousin’ what

The wife’ll say (I dinna blame her fur’t).

It’s robbin’ Peter to pey Paul at least....

And a’ that’s Scotch aboot it is the name,

Like a’ thing else ca’d Scottish nooadays

—A’ destitute o’ speerit juist the same.

(To prove my saul is Scots I maun begin

Wi’ what’s still deemed Scots and the folk expect,

And spire up syne by visible degrees

To heichts whereo’ the fules ha’e never recked.

But aince I get them there I’ll whummle them

And souse the craturs in the nether deeps,

—For it’s nae choice, and ony man s’ud wish

To dree the goat’s weird tae as weel’s the sheep’s!)

Heifetz in tartan, and Sir Harry Lauder!

Whaur’s Isadora Duncan dancin’ noo?

Is Mary Garden in Chicago still

And Duncan Grant in Paris—and me fou’?

Sic transit gloria Scotia—a’ the floo’ers

O’ the Forest are wede awa’. (A blin’ bird’s nest

Is aiblins biggin’ in the thistle tho’?...

And better blin’ if’ts brood is like the rest!)

You canna gang to a Burns supper even

Wi’oot some wizened scrunt o’ a knock-knee

Chinee turns roon to say, “Him Haggis—velly goot!”

And ten to wan the piper is a Cockney.

No’ wan in fifty kens a wurd Burns wrote

But misapplied is a’body’s property,

And gin there was his like alive the day

They’d be the last a kennin’ haund to gie—

Croose London Scotties wi’ their braw shirt fronts

And a’ their fancy freen’s, rejoicin’

That similah gatherings in Timbuctoo,

Bagdad—and Hell, nae doot—are voicin’

Burns’ sentiments o’ universal love,

In pidgin’ English or in wild-fowl Scots,

And toastin’ ane wha’s nocht to them but an

Excuse for faitherin’ Genius wi’ their thochts.

A’ they’ve to say was aften said afore

A lad was born in Kyle to blaw aboot.

What unco fate mak’s him the dumpin’-grun’

For a’ the sloppy rubbish they jaw oot?

Mair nonsense has been uttered in his name

Than in ony’s barrin’ liberty and Christ.

If this keeps spreedin’ as the drink declines,

Syne turns to tea, wae’s me for the Zeitgeist!

Rabbie, wad’st thou wert here—the warld hath need,

And Scotland mair sae, o’ the likes o’ thee!

The whisky that aince moved your lyre’s become

A laxative for a’ loquacity.

O gin they’d stegh their guts and haud their wheesht

I’d thole it, for “a man’s a man,” I ken,

But though the feck ha’e plenty o’ the “a’ that,”

They’re nocht but zoologically men.

I’m haverin’, Rabbie, but ye understaun’

It gets my dander up to see your star

A bauble in Babel, banged like a saxpence

’Twixt Burbank’s Baedeker and Bleistein’s cigar.

There’s nane sae ignorant but think they can

Expatiate on you, if on nae ither.

The sumphs ha’e ta’en you at your wird, and, fegs!

The foziest o’ them claims to be a—Brither!

Syne “Here’s the cheenge”—the star o’ Rabbie Burns.

Sma’ cheenge, “Twinkle, Twinkle.” The memory slips

As G. K. Chesterton heaves up to gi’e

“The Immortal Memory” in a huge eclipse,

Or somebody else as famous if less fat.

You left the like in Embro’ in a scunner

To booze wi’ thieveless cronies sic as me.

I’se warrant you’d shy clear o’ a’ the hunner

Odd Burns’ Clubs tae, or ninety-nine o’ them,

And haud your birthday in a different kip

Whaur your name isna’ ta’en in vain—as Christ

Gied a’ Jerusalem’s Pharisees the slip,

—Christ wha’d ha’e been Chief Rabbi gin he’d lik’t!—

Wi’ publicans and sinners to forgether,

But, losh! the publicans noo are Pharisees,

And I’m no’ shair o’ maist the sinners either.

But that’s aside the point! I’ve got fair waun’ert.

It’s no’ that I’m sae fou’ as juist deid dune,

And dinna ken as muckle’s whaur I am

Or hoo I’ve come to sprawl here ’neth the mune

That’s it! It isna me that’s fou’ at a’,

But the fu’ mune, the doited jade, that’s led

Me fer agley, or ’mogrified the warld.

—For a’ I ken I’m safe in my ain bed.

Jean! Jean! Gin she’s no’ here it’s no’ oor bed,

Or else I’m dreamin’ deep and canna wauken,

But it’s a fell queer dream if this is no’

A real hillside—and thae things thistles and bracken!

It’s hard wark haud’n by a thocht worth ha’en’

And harder speakin’t, and no’ for ilka man;

Maist Thocht’s like whisky—a thoosan’ under proof,

And a sair price is pitten on’t even than.

As Kirks wi’ Christianity ha’e dune,

Burns’ Clubs wi’ Burns—wi’ a’thing it’s the same,

The core o’ ocht is only for the few,

Scorned by the mony, thrang wi’ts empty name.

And a’ the names in History mean nocht

To maist folk but “ideas o’ their ain,”

The vera opposite o’ onything

The Deid ’ud awn gin they cam’ back again.

A greater Christ, a greater Burns, may come.

The maist they’ll dae is to gi’e bigger pegs

To folly and conceit to hank their rubbish on.

They’ll cheenge folks’ talk but no their natures, fegs!

I maun feed frae the common trough ana’

Whaur a’ the lees o’ hope are jumbled up;

While centuries like pigs are slorpin’ owre’t

Sall my wee ’oor be cryin’: “Let pass this cup?”

In wi’ your gruntle then, puir wheengin’ saul,

Lap up the ugsome aidle wi’ the lave,

What gin it’s your ain vomit that you swill

And frae Life’s gantin’ and unfaddomed grave?

I doot I’m geylies mixed, like Life itsel’,

But I was never ane that thocht to pit

An ocean in a mutchkin. As the haill’s

Mair than the pairt sae I than reason yet.

I dinna haud the warld’s end in my heid

As maist folk think they dae; nor filter truth

In fishy gills through which its tides may poor

For ony animalculæ forsooth.

I lauch to see my crazy little brain

—And ither folks’—tak’n itsel’ seriously,

And in a sudden lowe o’ fun my saul

Blinks dozent as the owl I ken’t to be.

I’ll ha’e nae hauf-way hoose, but aye be whaur

Extremes meet—it’s the only way I ken

To dodge the curst conceit o’ bein’ richt

That damns the vast majority o’ men.

I’ll bury nae heid like an ostrich’s,

Nor yet believe my een and naething else.

My senses may advise me, but I’ll be

Mysel’ nae maitter what they tell’s....

I ha’e nae doot some foreign philosopher

Has wrocht a system oot to justify

A’ this: but I’m a Scot wha blin’ly follows

Auld Scottish instincts, and I winna try.

For I’ve nae faith in ocht I can explain,

And stert whaur the philosophers leave aff,

Content to glimpse its loops I dinna ettle

To land the sea serpent’s sel’ wi’ ony gaff.

Like staundin’ water in a pocket o’

Impervious clay I pray I’ll never be,

Cut aff and self-sufficient, but let reenge

Heichts o’ the lift and benmaist deeps o’ sea.

Water! Water! There was owre muckle o’t

In yonder whisky, sae I’m in deep water

(And gin I could wun hame I’d be in het,

For even Jean maun natter, natter, natter)....

And in the toon that I belang tae

—What tho’ts Montrose or Nazareth?—

Helplessly the folk continue

To lead their livin’ death!...

[1]At darknin’ hings abune the howff

A weet and wild and eisenin’ air.

Spring’s spirit wi’ its waesome sough

Rules owre the drucken stramash there.

And heich abune the vennel’s pokiness,

Whaur a’ the white-weshed cottons lie;

The Inn’s sign blinters in the mochiness,

And lood and shrill the bairnies cry.

The hauflins ’yont the burgh boonds

Gang ilka nicht, and a’ the same,

Their bonnets cocked; their bluid that stounds

Is playin’ at a fine auld game.

And on the lochan there, hauf-herted

Wee screams and creakin’ oar-locks soon’,

And in the lift, heich, hauf-averted,

The mune looks owre the yirdly roon’.

And ilka evenin’, derf and serious

(Jean ettles nocht o’ this, puir lass),

In liquor, raw yet still mysterious,

A’e freend’s aye mirrored in my glass.

Ahint the sheenin’ coonter gruff

Thrang barmen ding the tumblers doun

“In vino veritas” cry rough

And reid-een’d fules that in it droon.

But ilka evenin’ fey and fremt

(Is it a dream nae wauk’nin’ proves?)

As to a trystin’-place undreamt,

A silken leddy darkly moves.

Slow gangs she by the drunken anes,

And lanely by the winnock sits;

Frae’r robes, atour the sunken anes,

A rooky dwamin’ perfume flits.

Her gleamin’ silks, the taperin’

O’ her ringed fingers, and her feathers

Move dimly like a dream wi’in,

While endless faith aboot them gethers.

I seek, in this captivity,

To pierce the veils that darklin’ fa’

—See white clints slidin’ to the sea,

And hear the horns o’ Elfland blaw.

I ha’e dark secrets’ turns and twists,

A sun is gi’en to me to haud,

The whisky in my bluid insists,

And spiers my benmaist history, lad.

And owre my brain the flitterin’

O’ the dim feathers gangs aince mair,

And, faddomless, the dark blue glitterin’

O’ twa een in the ocean there.

My soul stores up this wealth unspent,

The key is safe and nane’s but mine.

You’re richt, auld drunk impenitent,

I ken it tae—the truth’s in wine!

The munelicht’s like a lookin’-glass,

The thistle’s like mysel’,

But whaur ye’ve gane, my bonnie lass.

Is mair than I can tell.

Were you a vision o’ mysel’,

Transmuted by the mellow liquor?

Neist time I glisk you in a glass,

I’se warrant I’ll mak’ siccar.

A man’s a clean contrairy sicht

Turned this way in-ootside,

And, fegs, I feel like Dr Jekyll

Tak’n guid tent o’ Mr Hyde....

Gurly thistle—hic—you canna

Daunton me wi’ your shaggy mien,

I’m sair—hic—needin’ a shave,

That’s plainly to be seen.

But what aboot it—hic—aboot it?

Mony a man’s been that afore.

It’s no’ a fact that in his lugs

A wund like this need roar!...

[2]I hae forekent ye! O I hae forekent.

The years forecast your face afore they went.

A licht I canna thole is in the lift.

I bide in silence your slow-comin’ pace.

The ends o’ space are bricht: at last—oh swift!

While terror clings to me—an unkent face!

Ill-faith stirs in me as she comes at last,

The features lang forekent ... are unforecast.

O it gangs hard wi’me, I am forspent.

Deid dreams ha’e beaten me and a face unkent

And generations that I thocht unborn

Hail the strange Goddess frae my hert’s-hert torn!...

Or dost thou mak’ a thistle o’ me, wumman? But for thee

I were as happy as the munelicht, withoot care,

But thocht o’ thee—o’ thy contempt and ire—

Turns hauf the warld into the youky thistle there,

Feedin’ on the munelicht and transformin’ it

To this wanrestfu’ growth that winna let me be.

The munelicht is the freedom that I’d ha’e

But for this cursèd Conscience thou hast set in me.

It is morality, the knowledge o’ Guid and Ill,

Fear, shame, pity, like a will and wilyart growth,

That kills a’ else wi’in its reach and craves

Nae less at last than a’ the warld to gi’e it scouth.

The need to wark, the need to think, the need to be,

And a’ thing that twists Life into a certain shape

And interferes wi’ perfect liberty—

These feed this Frankenstein that nae man can escape.

For ilka thing a man can be or think or dae

Aye leaves a million mair unbeen, unthocht, undune,

Till his puir warped performance is,

To a’ that micht ha’ been, a thistle to the mune.

It is Mortality itsel’—the mortal coil,

Mockin’ Perfection, Man afore the Throne o’ God.

He yet has bigged himsel’, Man torn in twa

And glorious in the lift and grisly on the sod!...

There’s nocht sae sober as a man blin’ drunk.

I maun ha’e got an unco bellyfu’

To jaw like this—and yet what I am sayin’

Is a’ the apter, aiblins, to be true.

This munelicht’s fell like whisky noo I see’t.

—Am I a thingum mebbe that is kept

Preserved in spirits in a muckle bottle

Lang centuries efter sin’ wi’ Jean I slept?

—Mounted on a hillside, wi’ the thistles

And bracken for verisimilitude,

Like a stuffed bird on metal like a brainch,

Or a seal on a stump o’ rock-like wood?

Or am I juist a figure in a scene

O’ Scottish life A.D. one-nine-two-five?

The haill thing kelters like a theatre claith

Till I micht fancy that I was alive!

I dinna ken and nae man ever can.

I micht be in my ain bed efter a’.

The haill damned thing’s a dream for ocht we ken,

—The Warld and Life and Daith, Heaven, Hell ana’.

We maun juist tak’ things as we find them then,

And mak’ a kirk or mill o’ them as we can,

—And yet I feel this muckle thistle’s staun’in’

Atween me and the mune as pairt o’ a Plan.

It isna there—nor me—by accident.

We’re brocht thegither for a certain reason,

Ev’n gin it’s naething mair than juist to gi’e

My jaded soul a necessary frisson.

I never saw afore a thistle quite

Sae intimately, or at sic an ’oor.

There’s something in the fickle licht that gi’es

A different life to’t and an unco poo’er.

[3]“Rootit on gressless peaks, whaur its erect

And jaggy leafs, austerely cauld and dumb,

Haud the slow scaly serpent in respect,

The Gothic thistle, whaur the insect’s hum

Soon’s fer aff, lifts abune the rock it scorns

Its rigid virtue for the Heavens to see.

The too’ering boulders gaird it. And the bee

Mak’s honey frae the roses on its thorns.”

But that’s a Belgian refugee, of coorse.

This Freudian complex has somehoo slunken

Frae Scotland’s soul—the Scots aboulia—

Whilst a’ its terra nullius is betrunken.

And a’ the country roon’ aboot it noo

Lies clapt and shrunken syne like somebody wha

Has lang o’ seven devils been possessed;

Then when he turns a corner tines them a’,

Or like a body that has tint its soul.

Perched like a monkey on its heedless kist,

Or like a sea that peacefu’ fa’s again

When frae its deeps an octopus is fished.

I canna feel it has to dae wi’ me

Mair than a composite diagram o’

Cross-sections o’ my forbears’ organs

—And mine—’ud bring a kind o’ freen’ly glow.

And yet like bindweed through my clay it’s run,

And a’ my folks’—it’s queer to see’t unroll.

My ain soul looks me in the face, as ’twere,

And mair than my ain soul—my nation’s soul!

And sall a Belgian pit it into words

And sing a sang to’t syne, and no’ a Scot?

Oors is a wilder thistle, and Ramaekers

Canna bear aff the gree—avaunt the thocht!

To meddle wi’ the thistle and to pluck

The figs frae’t is my metier, I think.

Awak’, my muse, and gin you’re in puir fettle,

We aye can blame it on th’ inferior drink.

T. S. Eliot—it’s a Scottish name—

Afore he wrote ‘The Waste Land’ s’ud ha’e come

To Scotland here. He wad ha’e written

A better poem syne—like this, by gum!

Type o’ the wissenschaftsfeindlichkeit,

Begriffsmüdigkeit that has gar’t

Men try Morphologies der Weltgeschichte,

And mad Expressionismus syne in Art.

[4]A shameless thing, for ilka vileness able,

It is deid grey as dust, the dust o’ a man.

I perish o’ a nearness I canna win awa’ frae,

Its deidly coils aboot my buik are thrawn.

A shaggy poulp, embracin’ me and stingin’,

And as a serpent cauld agen’ my hert.

Its scales are poisoned shafts that jag me to the quick

—And waur than them’s my scunner’s fearfu’ smert!

O that its prickles were a knife indeed,

But it is thowless, flabby, dowf, and numb.

Sae sluggishly it drains my benmaist life

A dozent dragon, dreidfu’, deef, and dumb.

In mum obscurity it twines its obstinate rings

And hings caressin’ly, its purpose whole;

And this deid thing, whale-white obscenity,

This horror that I writhe in—is my soul!

Is it the munelicht or a leprosy

That spreids aboot me; and a thistle

Or my ain skeleton through wha’s bare banes

A fiendish wund’s begood to whistle?

The devil’s lauchter has a hwll like this.

My face has flown open like a lid

—And gibberin’ on the hillside there

Is a’ humanity sae lang has hid!...

My harns are seaweed—when the tide is in

They swall like blethers and in comfort float,

But when the tide is oot they lie like gealed

And runkled auld bluid-vessels in a knot!

The munelicht ebbs and flows and wi’t my thocht,

Noo’ movin’ mellow and noo lourd and rough.

I ken what I am like in Life and Daith,

But Life and Daith for nae man are enough....

And O! to think that there are members o’

St Andrew’s Societies sleepin’ soon’,

Wha to the papers wrote afore they bedded

On regimental buttons or buckled shoon,

Or use o’ England whaur the U.K.’s meent,

Or this or that anent the Blue Saltire,

Recruitin’, pedigrees, and Gude kens what,

Filled wi’ a proper patriotic fire!

Wad I were them—they’ve chosen a better pairt,

The couthie craturs, than the ane I’ve ta’en,

Tyauvin’ wi’ this root-hewn Scottis soul;

A fer, fer better pairt—except for men.

Nae doot they’re sober, as a Scot ne’er was,

Each tethered to a punctual-snorin’ missus,

Whilst I, puir fule, owre continents unkent

And wine-dark oceans waunder like Ulysses....

[5]The Mune sits on my bed the nicht unsocht,

And mak’s my soul obedient to her will;

And in the dumb-deid, still as dreams are still,

Her pupils narrow to bricht threids that thrill

Aboot the sensuous windin’s o’ her thocht.

But ilka windin’ has its coonter-pairt

—The opposite ’thoot which it couldna be—

In some wild kink or queer perversity

O’ this great thistle, green wi’ jealousy,

That breenges ’twixt the munelicht and my hert....

Plant, what are you then? Your leafs

Mind me o’ the pipes’ lood drone

—And a’ your purple tops

Are the pirly-wirly notes

That gang staggerin’ owre them as they groan.

Or your leafs are alligators

That ha’e gobbled owre a haill

Company o’ Heilant sodgers,

And left naethin’ but the toories

O’ their Balmoral bonnets to tell the tale.

Or a muckle bellows blawin’

Wi’ the sperks a’ whizzin’ oot;

Or green tides sweeshin’

’Neth heich-skeich stars,

Or centuries fleein’ doun a water-chute.

Grinnin’ gargoyle by a saint,

Mephistopheles in Heaven,

Skeleton at a tea-meetin’,

Missin’ link—or creakin’

Hinge atween the deid and livin’....

(I kent a Terrier in a sham fecht aince,

Wha louped a dyke and landed on a thistle.

He’d naething on ava aneth his kilt.

Schönberg has nae notation for his whistle.)...

(Gin you’re surprised a village drunk

Foreign references s’ud fool in,

You ha’ena the respect you s’ud

For oor guid Scottish schoolin’.

For we’ve the maist unlikely folk

Aye braggin’ o’ oor lear,

And, tho’ I’m drunk, for Scotland’s sake

I tak’ my barrowsteel here!

Yet Europe’s faur eneuch for me,

Puir fule, when bairns ken mair

O’ th’ ither warld than I o’ this

—But that’s no’ here nor there!)...

Guid sakes, I’m in a dreidfu’ state.

I’ll ha’e nae inklin’ sune

Gin I’m the drinker or the drink,

The thistle or the mune.

I’m geylies feart I couldna tell

Gin I su’d lay me doon

The difference betwixt the warld

And my ain heid gaen’ roon’!...

Drums in the Walligate, pipes in the air,

Come and hear the cryin’ o’ the Fair.

A’ as it used to be, when I was a loon

On Common-Ridin’ Day in the Muckle Toon.

The bearer twirls the Bannock-and-Saut-Herrin’,

The Croon o’ Roses through the lift is farin’,

The aucht-fit thistle wallops on hie;

In heather besoms a’ the hills gang by.

But noo it’s a’ the fish o’ the sea

Nailed on the roond o’ the Earth to me.

Beauty and Love that are bobbin’ there;

Syne the breengin’ growth that alane I bear;

And Scotland followin’ on ahint

For threepenny bits spleet-new frae the mint.

Drums in the Walligate, pipes in the air,

The wallopin’ thistle is ill to bear.

But I’ll dance the nicht wi’ the stars o’ Heaven

In the Mairket Place as shair’s I’m livin’.

Easy to cairry roses or herrin’,

And the lave may weel their threepenny bits earn.

Devil the star! It’s Jean I’ll ha’e

Again as she was on her weddin’ day....

Nerves in stounds o’ delight,

Muscles in pride o’ power,

Bluid as wi’ roses dight

Life’s toppin’ pinnacles owre,

The thistle yet’ll unite

Man and the Infinite!

Swippert and swith wi’ virr

In the howes o’ man’s hert

Forever its muckle roots stir

Like a Leviathan astert,

Till’ts coils like a thistle’s leafs

Sweep space wi’ levin sheafs.

Frae laichest deeps o’ the ocean

It rises in flight upon flight,

And ’yont its uttermaist motion

Can still set roses alight,

As else unreachable height

Fa’s under its triumphin’ sight.

Here is the root that feeds

The shank wi’ the blindin’ wings

Dwinin’ abuneheid to gleids

Like stars in their keethin’ rings,

And blooms in sunrise and sunset

Inowre Eternity’s yett.

Lay haud o’ my hert and feel

Fountains ootloupin’ the starns

Or see the Universe reel

Set gaen’ by my eident harns,

Or test the strength o’ my spauld

The wecht o’ a’ thing to hauld!

—The howes o’ Man’s hert are bare,

The Dragon’s left them for good,

There’s nocht but naethingness there,

The hole whaur the Thistle stood,

That rootless and radiant flies

A Phœnix in Paradise!...

Masoch and Sade

Turned into ane

Havoc ha’e made

O’ my a’e brain.

Weel, gin it’s Sade

Let it be said

They’ve made me mad

—That’ll da’e instead.

But it’s no’ instead

In Scots, but insteed.

—The life they’ve led

In my puir heid.

But aince I’ve seen

In the thistle here

A’ that they’ve been

I’ll aiblins wun clear.

Thistleless fule,

You’ll ha’e nocht left

But the hole frae which

Life’s struggle is reft!...

Reason ser’s nae end but pleasure,

Truth’s no’ an end but a means

To a wider knowledge o’ life

And a keener interest in’t.

We wha are poets and artists

Move frae inklin’ to inklin’,

And live for oor antrin lichtnin’s

In the haingles atweenwhiles,

Laich as the feck o’ mankind

Whence we breenge in unkennable shapes

—Crockats up, hair kaimed to the lift,

And no’ to cree legs wi’!...

We’re ootward boond frae Scotland.

Guid-bye, fare-ye-weel; guid-bye, fare-ye-weel.

—A’ the Scots that ever wur

Gang ootward in a creel.

We’re ootward boond frae Scotland.

Guid-bye, fare-ye-weel; guid-bye, fare-ye-weel.

The cross-tap is a monkey-tree

That nane o’ us can spiel.

We’ve never seen the Captain,

But the first mate is a Jew.

We’ve shipped aboord Eternity.

Adieu, kind freends, adieu!...

In the creel or on the gell

O’ oor coutribat and ganien.

What gin ithers see or hear

Naething but a gowkstorm?

Gin you stop the galliard

To teach them hoo to dance,

There comes in Corbaudie

And turns their gammons up!...

You vegetable cat’s melody!

Your Concert Miaulant is

A triumph o’ discord shairly,

And suits my fancy fairly

—I’m shair that Scott’ll agree

He canna vie wi’ this....

Said my body to my mind,

“I’ve been startled whiles to find,

When Jean has been in bed wi’ me,

A kind o’ Christianity!”

To my body said my mind,

“But your benmaist thocht you’ll find

Was ‘Bother what I think I feel

—Jean kens the set o’ my bluid owre weel,

And lauchs to see me in the creel

O’ my courage-bag confined.’”...

I wish I kent the physical basis

O’ a’ life’s seemin’ airs and graces.

It’s queer the thochts a kittled cull

Can lowse or splairgin’ glit annul.

Man’s spreit is wi’ his ingangs twined

In ways that he can ne’er unwind.

A wumman whiles a bawaw gi’es

That clean abaws him gin he sees.

Or wi’ a movement o’ a leg

Shows’m his mind is juist a geg.

I’se warrant Jean ’ud no’ be lang

In findin’ whence this thistle sprang.

Mebbe it’s juist because I’m no’

Beddit wi’ her that gars it grow!...

A luvin’ wumman is a licht[6]

That shows a man his waefu’ plicht,

Bleezin’ steady on ilka bane,

Wrigglin’ sinnen an’ twinin’ vein,

Or fleerin’ quick an’ gane again,

And the mair scunnersome the sicht

The mair for love and licht he’s fain

Till clear and chitterin’ and nesh

Move a’ the miseries o’ his flesh....

O lass, wha see’est me

As I daur hardly see,

I marvel that your bonny een

Are as they hadna’ seen.

Through a’ my self-respect

They see the truth abject

—Gin you could pierce their blindin’ licht

You’d see a fouler sicht!...

O wha’s the bride that cairries the bunch

O’ thistles blinterin’ white?

Her cuckold bridegroom little dreids

What he sail ken this nicht.

For closer than gudeman can come

And closer to’r than hersel’,

Wha didna need her maidenheid

Has wrocht his purpose fell.

O wha’s been here afore me, lass,

And hoo did he get in?

—A man that deed or I was born

This evil thing has din.

And left, as it were on a corpse,

Your maidenheid to me?

—Nae lass, gudeman, sin’ Time began

’S hed ony mair to gi’e.

But I can gi’e ye kindness, lad,

And a pair o’ willin’ hands,

And you sall ha’e my briests like stars,

My limbs like willow wands,

And on my lips ye’ll heed nae mair,

And in my hair forget,

The seed o’ a’ the men that in

My virgin womb ha’e met....

Millions o’ wimmen bring forth in pain

Millions o’ bairns that are no’ worth ha’en.

Wull ever a wumman be big again

Wi’s muckle’s a Christ? Yech, there’s nae sayin’.

Gin that’s the best that you ha’e comin’,

Fegs but I’m sorry for you, wumman!

Yet a’e thing’s certain.—Your faith is great.

Whatever happens, you’ll no’ be blate!...

Mary lay in jizzen

As it were claith o’ gowd,

But it’s in orra duds

Ilka ither bairntime’s row’d.

Christ had never toothick,

Christ was never seeck,

But Man’s a fiky bairn

Wi’ bellythraw, ripples, and worm-i’-the-cheek!...

Dae what ye wull ye canna parry

This skeleton-at-the-feast that through the starry

Maze o’ the warld’s intoxicatin’ soiree

Claughts ye, as micht at an affrontit quean

A bastard wean!

Prood mune, ye needna thring your shouder there,

And at your puir get like a snawstorm stare,

It’s yours—there’s nae denyin’t—and I’m shair

You’d no’ enjoy the evenin’ much the less

Gin you’d but openly confess!

Dod! It’s an eaten and a spewed-like thing,

Fell like a little-bodies’ changeling,

And it’s nae credit t’ye that you s’ud bring

The like to life—yet, gi’en a mither’s love,

—Hee, hee!—wha kens hoo’t micht improve?...

Or is this Heaven, this yalla licht,

And I the aft’rins o’ the Earth,

Or sic’s in this wanchancy time

May weel fin’ sudden birth?

The roots that wi’ the worms compete

Hauf-publish me upon the air.

The struggle that divides me still

Is seen fu’ plainly there.

The thistle’s shank scarce holes the grun’,

My grave’ll spare nae mair I doot.

—The crack’s fu’ wide; the shank’s fu’ strang;

A’ that I was is oot.

My knots o’ nerves that struggled sair

Are weel reflected in the herb;

My crookit instincts were like this,

As sterile and acerb.

My self-tormented spirit took

The shape repeated in the thistle;

Sma’ beauty jouked my rawny banes

And maze o’ gristle.

I seek nae peety, Paraclete,

And, fegs, I think the joke is rich

—Pairt soul, pairt skeleton’s come up;

They kentna which was which!...

Thou Daith in which my life

Sae vain a thing can seem,

Frae whatna source d’ye borrow

Your devastatin’ gleam?

Nae doot that hidden sun

’Ud look fu’ wae ana’,

Gin I could see it in the licht

That frae the Earth you draw!...

Shudderin’ thistle, gi’e owre, gi’e owre!

A’body’s gi’en in to the facts o’ life;

The impossible truth’ll triumph at last,

And mock your strife.

Your sallow leafs can never thraw,

Wi’ a’ their oorie shakin’,

Ae doot into the hert o’ life

That it may be mistak’n....

O Scotland is

The barren fig.

Up, carles, up

And roond it jig.

Auld Moses took

A dry stick and

Instantly it

Floo’ered in his hand.

Pu’ Scotland up,

And wha can say

It winna bud

And blossom tae.

A miracle’s

Oor only chance.

Up, carles, up

And let us dance!

Puir Burns, wha’s bouquet like a shot kail blaws

—Will this rouch sicht no’ gi’e the orchids pause?

The Gairdens o’ the Muses may be braw,

But nane like oors can breenge and eat ana’!

And owre the kailyaird-wa’ Dunbar they’ve flung,

And a’ their countrymen that e’er ha’e sung

For ither than ploomen’s lugs or to enrichen

Plots on Parnassus set apairt for kitchen.

Ploomen and ploomen’s wives—shades o’ the Manse

May weel be at the heid o’ sic a dance,

As through the polish’t ha’s o’ Europe leads

The rout o’ bagpipes, haggis, and sheep’s heids!

The vandal Scot! Frae Branksome’s deidly barrow

I struggle yet to free a’e winsome marrow,

To show what Scotland micht ha’e hed instead

O’ this preposterous Presbyterian breed.

(Gin Glesca folk are tired o’ Hengler,

And still need breid and circuses, there’s Spengler,

Or gin ye s’ud need mair than ane to teach ye,

Then learn frae Dostoevski and frae Nietzsche.

And let the lesson be—to be yersel’s,

Ye needna fash gin it’s to be ocht else.

To be yersel’s—and to mak’ that worth bein’.

Nae harder job to mortals has been gi’en.

To save your souls fu’ mony o’ ye are fain,

But de’il a dizzen to mak’ it worth the daein’.

I widna gi’e five meenits wi’ Dunbar

For a’ the millions o’ ye as ye are).

I micht ha’e been contentit wi’ the Rose

Gin I’d had ony reason to suppose

That what the English dae can e’er mak’ guid

For what Scots dinna—and first and foremaist should.

I micht ha’e been contentit—gin the feck

O’ my ain folk had grovelled wi’ less respec’,

But their obsequious devotion

Made it for me a criminal emotion.

I micht ha’e been contentit—ere I saw

That there were fields on which it couldna draw,

(While strang-er roots ran under’t) and a’e threid

O’t drew frae Scotland a’ that it could need,

And left the maist o’ Scotland fallow

(Save for the patch on which the kail-blades wallow),

And saw hoo ither countries’ genius drew

Elements like mine that in a rose ne’er grew....

Gin the threid haud’n us to the rose were snapt,

There’s no’ a’e petal o’t that ’ud be clapt.

A’ Scotland gi’es gangs but to jags or stalk,

The bloom is English—and ’ud ken nae lack!...

O drumlie clood o’ crudity and cant,

Obliteratin’ as the Easter rouk

That rows up frae the howes and droons the heichs,

And turns the country to a faceless spook.

Like blurry shapes o’ landmarks in the haar

The bonny idiosyncratic place-names loom,

Clues to the vieve and maikless life that’s lain

Happit for centuries in an alien gloom....

Eneuch! For noo I’m in the mood,

Scotland, responsive to my thoughts,

Lichts mile by mile, as my ain nerves,

Frae Maidenheid to John o’ Groats!

What are prophets and priests and kings,

What’s ocht to the people o’ Scotland?

Speak—and Cruivie’ll goam at you,

Gilsanquhar jalouse you’re dottlin!

And Edinburgh and Glasgow

Are like ploomen in a pub.

They want to hear o’ naething

But their ain foul hubbub....

The fules are richt; an extra thocht

Is neither here nor there.

Oor lives may differ as they like

—The self-same fate we share.

And whiles I wish I’d nae mair sense

Than Cruivie and Gilsanquhar,

And envy their rude health and curse

My gnawin’ canker.

Guid sakes, ye dinna need to pass

Ony exam. to dee

—Daith canna tell a common flech

Frae a performin’ flea!...

It sets you weel to slaver

To let sic gaadies fa’

—The mune’s the muckle white whale

I seek in vain to kaa!

The Earth’s my mastless samyn,

The thistle my ruined sail.

—Le’e go as you maun in the end,

And droon in your plumm o’ ale!...

Clear keltie aff an’ fill again

Withoot corneigh bein’ cryit,

The drink’s aye best that follows a drink.

Clear keltie aff and try it.

Be’t whisky gill or penny wheep,

Or ony ither lotion,

We ’bood to ha’e a thimblefu’ first,

And syne we’ll toom an ocean!...

“To Luna at the Craidle-and-Coffin

To sof’n her hert if owt can sof’n:—

Auld bag o’ tricks, ye needna come

And think to stap me in your womb.

You needna fash to rax and strain.

Carline, I’ll no be born again

In ony brat you can produce.

Carline, gi’e owre—O what’s the use?

You pay nae heed but plop me in,

Syne shove me oot, and winna be din,

—Owre and owre, the same auld trick,

Cratur withoot climateric!...

“Noo Cutty Sark’s tint that ana,

And dances in her skin—Ha! Ha!

I canna ride awa’ like Tam,

But e’en maun bide juist whaur I am.

I canna ride—and gin I could,

I’d sune be sorry I hedna stood,

For less than a’ there is to see

’ll never be owre muckle for me.

Cutty, gin you’ve mair to strip,

Aff wi’t, lass—and let it rip!”...

Ilka pleesure I can ha’e

Ends like a dram ta’en yesterday.

And tho’ to ha’e it I am lorn

—What better ’ud I be the morn?...

My belly on the gantrees there,

The spigot frae my cullage,

And wow but how the fizzin’ yill

In spilth increased the ullage!

I was an anxious barrel, lad,

When first they tapped my bung.

They whistled me up, yet thro’ the lift

My freaths like rainbows swung.

Waesucks, a pride for ony bar,

The boast o’ barleyhood,

Like Noah’s Ark abune the faem

Maun float, a gantin’ cude,

For I was thrawn fu’ cock owre sune,

And wi’ a single jaw

I made the pub a blindin’ swelth,

And how’d the warld awa’!...

What forest worn to the back-hauf’s this,

What Eden brocht doon to a bean-swaup?

The thistle’s to earth as the man

In the mune’s to the mune, puir chap.

The haill warld’s barkin’ and fleein’,

And this is its echo and aiker,

A soond that arrears in my lug

Herrin’-banein’ back to its maker,

A swaw like a flaw in a jewel

Or nadryv[7] jaloused in a man,

Or Creation unbiggit again

To the draucht wi’ which it began....

Abordage o’ this toom houk’s nae mowse.

It munks and’s ill to lay haud o’,

As gin a man ettled to ride

On the shouders o’ his ain shadow.

I canna biel’t; tho’ steekin’ an e’e

Tither’s munkie wi’ munebeam for knool in’t,

For there’s nae sta’-tree and the brute’s awa’

Wi’ me kinkin’ like foudrie ahint....

Sae Eternity’ll buff nor stye

For Time, and shies at a touch, man;

Yet aye in a belth o’ Thocht

Comes alist like the Fleein’ Dutchman....

As the worms’ll breed in my corpse until

It’s like a rice-puddin’, the thistle

Has made an eel-ark o’ the lift

Whaur elvers like skirl-in-the-pan sizzle,

Like a thunder-plump on the sunlicht,

Or the slounge o’ daith on my dreams,

Or as to a fair forfochen man

A breedin’ wife’s beddiness seems,

Saragossa Sea, St Vitus’ Dance,

A cafard in a brain’s despite,

Or lunacy that thinks a’ else

Is loony—and is dootless richt!...

Gin my thochts that circle like hobby-horses

’Udna loosen to nightmares I’d sleep;

For nocht but a chowed core’s left whaur Jerusalem lay

Like aipples in a heap!...

It’s a queer thing to tryst wi’ a wumman

When the boss o’ her body’s gane,

And her banes in the wund as she comes

Dirl like a raff o’ rain.

It’s a queer thing to tryst wi’ a wumman

When her ghaist frae abuneheid keeks,

And you see in the licht o’t that a’

You ha’e o’r’s the cleiks....

What forest worn to the backhauf’s this,

What Eden brocht doon to a beanswaup?

—A’ the ferlies o’ natur’ spring frae the earth,

And into’t again maun drap.

Animals, vegetables, what are they a’

But as thochts that a man has ha’en?

And Earth sall be like a toom skull syne.

—Whaur’ll its thochts be then?...

The munelicht is my knowledge o’ mysel’,

Mysel’ the thistle in the munelicht seen,

And hauf my shape has fund itsel’ in thee

And hauf my knowledge in your piercin’ een.

E’en as the munelicht’s borrowed frae the sun

I ha’e my knowledge o’ mysel’ frae thee,

And much that nane but thee can e’er mak’ clear,

Save my licht’s frae the source, is dark to me.

Your acid tongue, vieve lauchter, and hawk’s een,

And bluid that drobs like haill to quicken me,

Can turn the mid-day black or midnicht bricht,

Lowse me frae licht or eke frae darkness free.

Bite into me forever mair and lift

Me clear o’ chaos in a great relief

Till, like this thistle in the munelicht growin’,

I brak in roses owre a hedge o’ grief....

I am like Burns, and ony wench

Can ser’ me for a time.

Licht’s in them a’—in some a sun,

In some the merest skime.

I’m no’ like Burns, and weel I ken,

Tho’ ony wench can ser’,

It’s no’ through mony but through yin

That ony man wuns fer....

I weddit thee frae fause love, lass,

To free thee and to free mysel’;

But man and wumman tied for life

True can be and truth can tell.

Pit ony couple in a knot

They canna lowse and needna try,

And mair o’ love at last they’ll ken

—If ocht!—than joy’ll alane descry.

For them as for the beasts, my wife,

A’s fer frae dune when pleesure’s owre,

And coontless difficulties gar

Ilk hert discover a’ its power.

I dinna say that bairns alane

Are true love’s task—a sairer task

Is aiblins to create oorsels

As we can be—it’s that I ask.

Create oorsels, syne bairns, syne race.

Sae on the cod I see’t in you

Wi’ Maidenkirk to John o’ Groats

The bosom that you draw me to.

And nae Scot wi’ a wumman lies,

But I am he and ken as ’twere

A stage I’ve passed as he maun pass’t,

Gin he grows up, his way wi’ her!...

A’thing wi’ which a man

Can intromit’s a wumman,

And can, and s’ud, become

As intimate and human.

And Jean’s nae mair my wife

Than whisky is at times,

Or munelicht or a thistle

Or kittle thochts or rhymes.

He’s no’ a man ava’,

And lacks a proper pride,

Gin less than a’ the warld

Can ser’ him for a bride!...

Use, then, my lust for whisky and for thee,

Your function but to be and let me be

And see and let me see.

If in a lesser licht I grope my way,

Or use’t for ends that need your different ray

Whelm’t in superior day.

Then aye increase and ne’er withdraw your licht.

—Gin it shows either o’s in hideous plicht,

What gain to turn’t to nicht?

Whisky mak’s Heaven or Hell and whiles mells baith,

Disease is but the privy torch o’ Daith,

—But sex reveals life, faith!

I need them a’ and maun be aye at strife.

Daith and ayont are nocht but pairts o’ life.

—Then be life’s licht, my wife!...

Love often wuns free

In lust to be strangled,

Or love, o’ lust free,

In law’s sairly tangled.

And it’s ill to tell whether

Law or lust is to blame

When love’s chokit up

—It comes a’ to the same.

In this sorry growth

Whatna beauty is tint

That freed o’t micht find

A waur fate than is in’t?...

Yank oot your orra boughs, my hert!

God gied man speech and speech created thocht,

He gied man speech but to the Scots gied nocht

Barrin’ this clytach that they’ve never brocht

To onything but sic a Blottie O

As some bairn’s copybook micht show,

A spook o’ soond that frae the unkent grave

In which oor nation lies loups up to wave

Sic leprous chuns as tatties have

That cellar-boond send spindles gropin’

Towards ony hole that’s open,

Like waesome fingers in the dark that think

They still may widen the ane and only chink

That e’er has gi’en mankind a blink

O’ Hope—tho’ ev’n in that puir licht

They s’ud ha’e seen their hopeless plicht.

This puir relation o’ my topplin’ mood,

This country cousin, streak o’ churl-bluid,

This hopeless airgh ’twixt a’ we can and should,

This Past that like Astarte’s sting I feel,

This arrow in Achilles’ heel.

Yank oot your orra boughs, my hert!

Mebbe we’re in a vicious circle cast,

Mebbe there’s limits we can ne’er get past,

Mebbe we’re sentrices that at the last

Are flung aside, and no’ the pillars and props

O’ Heaven foraye as in oor hopes.

Oor growth at least nae steady progress shows,

Genius in mankind like an antrin rose

Abune a jungly waste o’ effort grows,

But to Man’s purpose it mak’s little odds,

And seems irrelevant to God’s....

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 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 bosom

Frae importunities sae gruesome,

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 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!

There was a 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 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 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 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 syne

Sets up a God and kens His purpose 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’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 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 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 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 had

Sic an inhabitant?

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 until

A’ in a rose was beekin’.

“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 maun

For scrunts o’ blooms like mine,

While blossom covers ither plants

As by a knack divine.

“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 ahint

The thistle’s ugsome guise,

“I’ll brak’ the habit o’ my life

A worthier to devise.”

“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 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, 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 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 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 resumed

Into God’s mind, frae which sae lang

To grugous state ’twas doomed.

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 sway

Imposed itsel’ again,

Or nerve owre weak for new emprise

That made the effort vain,

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 sacrifice

Earth draws its barren ring.

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 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 as

A favourite lust they’re wrocht.

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 rose

Jaups oot abune the pricks.

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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 whisky was,

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 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 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 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 think

It was like something drunk men see!

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 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 bed

Wi’ three-in-ane and ane-in-three.

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.

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 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’er

To see we’re worthless and believe ’t?

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’ 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 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 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 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 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 nest

Than skasloch scattered owre the grun’?

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 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 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 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’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’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 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 Jacob v. 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 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 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 the Scotsman,

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 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 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 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 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!...

I’m fu’ o’ a stickit God.

THAT’S what’s the maitter wi’ me,

Jean has stuck sic a fork in the wa’

That I row in agonie.

Mary never let dab.

SHE was a canny wumman.

She hedna a gaw in Joseph at a’

But, wow, this seecund comin’!...

Narodbogonosets[10] are my folk tae,

But in a sma’ way nooadays—

A faitherly God wi’ a lang white beard,

Or painted Jesus in a haze

O’ blue and gowd, a gird aboot his heid

Or some sic thing. It’s been a sair come-doon,

And the trade’s nocht to what it was.

Unnatural practices are the cause.

Baith bairns and Gods’ll be obsolete soon

(The twaesome gang thegither), and forsooth

Scotland turn Eliot’s waste—the Land o’ Drouth.

But even as the stane the builders rejec’

Becomes the corner-stane, the time may be

When Scotland sall find oot its destiny,

And yield the vse-chelovek.[11]

—At a’ events, owre Europe flaught atween,

My whim (and mair than whim) it pleases

To seek the haund o’ Russia as a freen’

In workin’ oot mankind’s great synthesis....

Melville[12] (a Scot) kent weel hoo Christ’s

Corrupted into creeds malign,

Begotten strife’s pernicious brood

That claims for patron Him Divine.

(The Kirk in Scotland still I cry

Crooks whaur it canna crucify!)

Christ, bleedin’ like the thistle’s roses,

He saw—as I in similar case—

Maistly, in beauty and in fear,

’Ud “paralyse the nobler race,

Smite or suspend, perplex, deter,

And, tortured, prove the torturer.”

And never mair a Scot sall tryst,

Abies on Calvary, wi’ Christ,

Unless, mebbe, a poem like this’ll

Exteriorise things in a thistle,

And gi’e him in this form forlorn

What Melville socht in vain frae Hawthorne....

Spirit o’ strife, destroy in turn

Syne this fule’s Paradise, syne that;

In thee’s in Calvaries that owrecome

Daith efter Daith let me be caught,

Or in the human form that hauds

Us in its ignominious thrall,

While on brute needs oor souls attend

Until disease and daith end all,

Or in the grey deluded brain,

Reflectin’ in anither field

The torments o’ its parent flesh

In thocht-preventin’ thocht concealed,

Or still in curst impossible mould,

Last thistle-shape men think to tak’,

The soul, frae flesh and thocht set free,

On Heaven’s strait if unseen rack.

There may be heicher forms in which

We can nae mair oor plicht define,

Because the agonies involved

’ll bring us their ain anodyne.

Yet still we suffer and still sall,

Altho’, puir fules, we mayna kent

As lang as like the thistle we

In coil and in recoil are pent.

And ferrer than mankind can look

Ghast shapes that free but to transfix

Twine rose-crooned in their agonies,

And strive agen the endless pricks.

The dooble play that bigs and braks

In endless victory and defeat

Is in your spikes and roses shown,

And a’ my soul is haggar’d wi’t....

Be like the thistle, O my soul,

Heedless o’ praise and quick to tak’ affront,

And growin’ like a mockery o’ a’

Maist life can want or thole,

And manifest forevermair

Contempt o’ ilka goal.

O’ ilka goal—save ane alane;

To be yoursel’, whatever that may be,

And as contemptuous o’ that,

Kennin’ nocht’s worth the ha’en,

But certainty that nocht can be,

And hoo that certainty to gain.

For this you still maun grow and grope

In the abyss wi’ ever-deepenin’ roots

That croon your scunner wi’ the grue

O’ hopeless hope

—And gin the abyss is bottomless,

Your growth’ll never stop!...

What earthquake chitters oot

In the Thistle’s oorie shape,

What gleids o’ central fire

In its reid heids escape,

And whatna coonter forces

In growth and ingrowth graip

In an eternal clinch

In this ootcuissen form

That winna be outcast,

But triumphs at the last

(Owre a’ abies itsel’

As fer as we can tell,

Sin’ frae the Eden o’ the world

Ilka man in turn is hurled,

And ilka gairden rins to waste

That was ever to his taste?)

O keep the Thistle ’yont the wa’

Owre which your skeletons you’ll thraw.

I, in the Thistle’s land,

As you[13] in Russia where

Struggle in giant form

Proceeds for evermair,

In my sma’ measure ’bood

Address a similar task,

And for a share o’ your

Appallin’ genius ask.

Wha built in revelations

What maist men in reserves

(And only men confound!)

A better gift deserves

Frae ane wha like hissel

(As ant-heap unto mountain)

Needs bigs his life upon

The everloupin’ fountain

That frae the Dark ascends

Whaur Life begins, Thocht ends

—A better gift deserves

Than thae wheen yatterin’ nerves!

For mine’s the clearest insicht

O’ man’s facility

For constant self-deception,

And hoo his mind can be

But as a floatin’ iceberg

That hides aneth the sea

Its bulk: and hoo frae depths

O’ an unfaddomed flood

Tensions o’ nerves arise

And humours o’ the blood

—Keethin’s nane can trace

To their original place.

Hoo mony men to mak’ a man

It tak’s he kens wha kens Life’s plan.

But there are flegsome deeps

Whaur the soul o’ Scotland sleeps

That I to bottom need

To wauk Guid kens what deid,

Play at stertle-a-stobie,

Wi’ nation’s dust for hobby,

Or wi’ God’s sel’ commerce

For the makin’ o’ a verse.

“Melville, sea-compelling man,

Before whose wand Leviathan

Rose hoary-white upon the Deep,”[14]

What thou hast sown I fain ’ud reap

O’ knowledge ’yont the human mind

In keepin’ wi’ oor Scottish kind,

And, thanks to thee, may aiblins reach

To what this Russian has to teach,

Closer than ony ither Scot,

Closer to me than my ain thocht,

Closer than my ain braith to me,

As close as to the Deity

Approachable in whom appears

This Christ o’ the neist thoosand years.

As frae your baggit wife

You turned whenever able,

And often when you werena,

Unto the gamin’ table,

And opened wide to ruin

Your benmaist hert, aye brewin’

A horror o’ whatever

Seemed likely to deliver

You frae the senseless strife

In which alane is life,

—As Burns in Edinburgh

Breenged arse-owre-heid thoro’

A’ it could be the spur o’

To pleuch his sauted furrow,

And turned frae a’ men honour

To what could only scunner

Wha thinks that common-sense

Can e’er be but a fence

To keep a soul worth ha’en

Frae what it s’ud be daein’

—Sae I in turn maun gie

My soul to misery,

Daidle disease

Upon my knees,

And welcome madness

Wi’ exceedin’ gladness

—Aye, open wide my hert

To a’ the thistle’s smert.

And a’ the hopes o’ men

Sall be like wiles then

To gar my soul betray

Its only richtfu’ way,

Or as a couthie wife

That seeks nae mair frae life

Than domesticity

E’en wi’ the likes o’ me—

As gin I could be carin’

For her or for her bairn

When on my road I’m farin’

—O I can spend a nicht

In ony man’s Delicht

Or wi’ ony wumman born

—But aye be aff the morn!

In a’ the inklin’s cryptic,

Then, o’ an epileptic,

I ha’e been stood in you

And droukit in their grue

Till I can see richt through

Ilk weakness o’ my frame

And ilka dernin’ shame,

And can employ the same

To jouk the curse o’ fame,

Lowsed frae the dominion

O’ popular opinion,

And risen at last abune

The thistle like a mune

That looks serenely doon

On what queer things there are

In an inferior star

That couldna be, or see,

Themsel’s, except in me.

Wi’ burnt-oot hert and poxy face

I sall illumine a’ the place,

And there is ne’er a fount o’ grace

That isna in a similar case.

Let a’ the thistle’s growth

Be as a process, then,

My spirit’s gane richt through,

And needna threid again,

Tho’ in it sall be haud’n

For aye the feck o’ men

Wha’s queer contortions there

As memories I ken,

As memories o’ my ain

O’ mony an ancient pain.

But sin’ wha’ll e’er wun free

Maun tak’ like coorse to me,

A fillip I wad gi’e

Their eccentricity,

And leave the lave to dree

Their weirdless destiny.

It’s no’ withoot regret

That I maun follow yet

The road that led me past

Humanity sae fast,

Yet scarce can gi’e a fate

That is at last mair fit

To them wha tak’ that gait

Than theirs wha winna ha’e’t,

Seein’ that nae man can get

By ony airt or wile,

A destiny quite worth while

As fer as he can tell

—Or even you yoursel’!

And O! I canna thole

Aye yabblin’ o’ my soul,

And fain I wad be free

O’ my eternal me,

Nor fare mysel’ alane

—Withoot that tae be gane,

And this, I ha’e nae doot,

This road’ll bring aboot.

The munelicht that owre clear defines

The thistle’s shrill cantankerous lines

E’en noo whiles insubstantialises

Its grisly form and ’stead devises

A maze o’ licht, a siller-frame,

As ’twere God’s dream frae which it came,

Ne’er into bein’ coorsened yet,

The essence lowin’ pure in it,

As tho’ the fire owrecam’ the clay,

And left its wraith in endless day.

These are the moments when a’ sense

Like mist is vanished and intense,

Magic emerges frae the dense

Body o’ bein’ and beeks immense

As, like a ghinn oot o’ a bottle,

Daith rises frae’s when oor lives crottle.

These are the moments when my sang

Clears its white feet frae oot amang

My broken thocht, and moves as free

As souls frae bodies when they dee.

There’s naething left o’ me ava’

Save a’ I’d hoped micht whiles befa’.

Sic sang to men is little worth.

It has nae message for the earth.

Men see their warld turned tapsalteerie,

Drookit in a licht owre eerie,

Or sent birlin’ like a peerie—

Syne it turns a’ they’ve kent till then

To shapes they can nae langer ken.

Men canna look on nakit licht.

It flings them back wi’ darkened sicht,

And een that canna look at it,

Maun draw earth closer roond them yet

Or, their sicht tint, find nocht instead

That answers to their waefu’ need.

And yet this essence frae the clay

In dooble form aye braks away,

For, in addition to the licht,

There is an e’er-increasin’ nicht,

A nicht that is the bigger, and

Gangs roond licht like an airn band

That noo and then mair tichtly grips,

And snuffs it in a black eclipse,

But rings it maistly as a brough

The mune, till it’s juist bricht enough—

O wull I never lowse a licht

I canna dowse again in spite,

Or dull to haud within my sicht?

The thistle canna vanish quite.

Inside a’ licht its shape maun glint,

A spirit wi’ a skeleton in’t

The world, the flesh, ’ll bide in us

As in the fire the unburnt buss,

Or as frae sire to son we gang

And coontless corpses in us thrang.

And e’en the glory that descends

I kenna whence on me depends,

And shapes itsel’ to what is left

Whaur I o’ me ha’e me bereft,

And still the form is mine, altho’

A force to which I ne’er could grow

Is movin’ in’t as ’twere a sea

That lang syne drooned the last o’ me

—That drooned afore the warld began

A’ that could ever come frae Man.

And as at sicna times am I,

I wad ha’e Scotland to my eye

Until I saw a timeless flame

Tak’ Auchtermuchty for a name,

And kent that Ecclefechan stood

As pairt o’ an eternal mood.

Ahint the glory comes the nicht

As Maori to London’s ruins,

And I’m amused to see the plicht

O’ Licht as’t in the black tide droons,

Yet even in the brain o’ Chaos

For Scotland I wad hain a place,

And let Tighnabruaich still

Be pairt and paircel o’ its will,

And Culloden, black as Hell,

A knowledge it has o’ itsel’.

Thou, Dostoevski, understood,

Wha had your ain land in your bluid,

And into it as in a mould

The passion o’ your bein’ rolled,

Inherited in turn frae Heaven

Or sources fer abune it even.

Sae God retracts in endless stage

Through angel, devil, age on age,

Until at last his infinite natur’

Walks on earth a human cratur’

(Or less than human as to my een

The people are in Aiberdeen);

Sae man returns in endless growth

Till God in him again has scouth.

For sic a loup towards wisdom’s croon

Hoo fer a man maun base him doon,

Hoo plunge aboot in Chaos ere

He finds his needfu’ fittin’ there,

The matrix oot o’ which sublime

Serenity sall soar in time!

Ha’e I the cruelty I need,

Contempt and syne contempt o’ that,

And still contempt in endless meed

That I may never yet be caught

In ony satisfaction, or

Bird-lime that winna let me soar?

Is Scotland big enough to be

A symbol o’ that force in me,

In wha’s divine inebriety

A sicht abune contempt I’ll see?

For a’ that’s Scottish is in me,

As a’ things Russian were in thee,

And I in turn ’ud be an action

To pit in a concrete abstraction

My country’s contrair qualities,

And mak’ a unity o’ these

Till my love owre its history dwells,

As owretone to a peal o’ bells.

And in this heicher stratosphere

As bairn at giant at thee I peer....

O Jean, in whom my spirit sees,

Clearer than through whisky or disease,

Its dernin’ nature, wad the searchin’ licht

Oor union raises poor’d owre me the nicht.

I’m faced wi’ aspects o’ mysel’

At last wha’s portent nocht can tell,

Save that sheer licht o’ life that when we’re joint

Loups through me like a fire a’ else t’ aroint.

Clear my lourd flesh, and let me move

In the peculiar licht o’ love,

As aiblins in Eternity men may

When their swack souls nae mair are clogged wi’ clay.

Be thou the licht in which I stand

Entire, in thistle-shape, as planned,

And no’ hauf-hidden and hauf-seen as here

In munelicht, whisky, and in fleshly fear,

In fear to look owre closely at

The grisly form in which I’m caught,

In sic a reelin’ and imperfect licht

Sprung frae incongruous elements the nicht!

But wer’t by thou they were shone on,

Then wad I ha’e nae dreid to con

The ugsome problems shapin’ in my soul,

Or gin I hed—certes, nae fear you’d thole!

Be in this fibre like an eye,

And ilka turn and twist descry,

Hoo here a leaf, a spine, a rose—or as

The purpose o’ the poo’er that brings ’t to pass.

Syne liberate me frae this tree,

As wha had there imprisoned me,

The end achieved—or show me at the least

Mair meanin’ in’t, and hope o’ bein’ released.

I tae ha’e heard Eternity drip water

(Aye water, water!), drap by drap

On the a’e nerve, like lichtnin’, I’ve become,

And heard God passin’ wi’ a bobby’s feet

Ootby in the lang coffin o’ the street

—Seen stang by chitterin’ knottit stang loup oot

Uncrushed by th’ echoes o’ the thunderin’ boot,

Till a’ the dizzy lint-white lines o’ torture made

A monstrous thistle in the space aboot me,

A symbol o’ the puzzle o’ man’s soul

—And in my agony been pridefu’ I could still

Tine nae least quiver or twist, watch ilka point

Like a white-het bodkin ripe my inmaist hert,

And aye wi’ clearer pain that brocht nae anodyne,

But rose for ever to a fer crescendo

Like eagles that ootsoar wi’ skinklan’ wings

The thieveless sun they blin’

—And pridefu’ still

That ’yont the sherp wings o’ the eagles fleein’

Aboot the dowless pole o’ Space,

Like leafs aboot a thistle-shank, my bluid

Could still thraw roses up

—And up!

O rootless thistle through the warld that’s pairt o’ you,

Gin you’d withstand the agonies still to come,

You maun send roots doon to the deeps unkent,

Fer deeper than it’s possible for ocht to gang,

Savin’ the human soul,

Deeper than God himsel’ has knowledge o’,

Whaur lichtnin’s canna probe that cleave the warld,

Whaur only in the entire dark there’s founts o’ strength

Eternity’s poisoned draps can never file,

And muckle roots thicken, deef to bobbies’ feet.

A mony-brainchin’ candelabra fills

The lift and’s lowin’ wi’ the stars;

The Octopus Creation is is wallopin’

In coontless faddoms o’ a nameless sea.

I am the candelabra, and burn

My endless candles to an Unkent God.

I am the mind and meanin’ o’ the octopus

That thraws its empty airms through a’ th’ Inane.

And a’ the bizzin’ suns ha’e bigged

Their kaims upon the surface o’ the sea.

My lips may feast for ever, but my guts

Ken naething o’ the Food o’ Gods.

“Let there be Licht,” said God, and there was

A little: but He lacked the poo’er

To licht up mair than pairt o’ space at aince,

And there is lots o’ darkness that’s the same

As gin He’d never spoken

—Mair darkness than there’s licht,

And dwarfin’t to a candle-flame,

A spalin’ candle that’ll sune gang oot.

—Darkness comes closer to us than the licht,

And is oor natural element. We peer oot frae’t

Like cat’s een bleezin’ in a goustrous nicht

(Whaur there is nocht to find but stars

That look like ither cats’ een),

Like cat’s een, and there is nocht to find

Savin’ we turn them in upon oorsels;

Cats canna.

Darkness is wi’ us a’ the time, and Licht

But veesits pairt o’ us, the wee-est pairt

Frae time to time on a short day atween twa nichts.

Nae licht is thrawn on them by ony licht.

Licht thraws nae licht upon itsel’;

But in the darkness them wha’s een

Nae fleetin’ lichts ha’e dazzled and deceived

Find qualities o’ licht, keener than ony licht,

Keen and abidin’;

That show the nicht unto itsel’,

And syne the licht,

That queer extension o’ the dark,

That seems a separate and a different thing,

And, seemin’ sae, has lang confused the dark,

And set it at cross-purposes wi’ itsel’.

O little Life

In which Daith guises and deceives itsel’,

Joy that mak’s Grief a Janus,

Hope that is Despair’s fause-face,

And Guid and Ill that are the same,

Save as the chance licht fa’s!

And yet the licht is there,

Whether frae within or frae withoot.

The conscious Dark can use it, dazzled nor deceived.

The licht is there, and th’ instinct for it,

Pairt o’ the Dark and o’ the need to guise,

To deceive and be deceived,

But let us then be undeceived

When we deceive,

When we deceive oorsels.

Let us enjoy deceit, this instinct in us.

Licht cheenges naething,

And gin there is a God wha made the licht

We are adapted to receive,

He cheenged naething,

And hesna kythed Hissel!

Save in this licht that fa’s whaur the Auld Nicht was,

Showin’ naething that the Darkness didna hide,

And gin it shows a pairt o’ that

Confoondin’ mair than it confides

Ev’n in that.

The epileptic thistle twitches

(A trick o’ wund or mune or een—or whisky).

A brain laid bare,

A nervous system,

The skeleton wi’ which men labour

And bring to life in Daith

—I, risen frae the deid, ha’e seen

My deid man’s eunuch offspring.

—The licht frae bare banes whitening evermair,

Frae twitchin’ nerves thrawn aff,

Frae nakit thocht,

Works in the Darkness like a fell disease,

A hungry acid and a cancer,

Disease o’ Daith-in-Life and Life-in-Daith.

O for a root in some untroubled soil,

Some cauld soil ’yont this fevered warld,

That ’ud draw darkness frae a virgin source,

And send it slow and easefu’ through my veins,

Release the tension o’ my grisly leafs,

Withdraw my endless spikes,

Move coonter to the force in me that hauds

Me raxed and rigid and ridiculous

—And let my roses drap

Like punctured ba’s that at a Fair

Fa’ frae the loupin’ jet!

—Water again!...

Omsk and the Calton turn again to dust,

The suns and stars fizz out with little fuss,

The bobby booms away and seems to bust,

And leaves the world to darkness and to us.

The circles of our hungry thought

Swing savagely from pole to pole.

Death and the Raven drift above

The graves of Sweeney’s body and soul.

My name is Norval. On the Grampian Hills

It is forgotten, and deserves to be.

So are the Grampian Hills and all the people

Who ever heard of either them or me.

What’s in a name? From pole to pole

Our interlinked mentality spins.

I know that you are Deosil, and suppose

That therefore I am Widdershins.

Do you reverse? Shall us? Then let’s.

Cyclone and Anti?—how absurd!

She should know better at her age.

Auntie’s an ass, upon my word.

This is the sort of thing they teach

The Scottish children in the school.

Poetry, patriotism, manners—

No wonder I am such a fool....

Hoo can I graipple wi’ the thistle syne,

Be intricate as it and up to a’ its moves?

A’ airts its sheenin’ points are loupin’ ’yont me,

Quhile still the firmament it proves.

And syne it’s like a wab in which the warld

Squats like a spider, quhile the mune and me

Are taigled in an endless corner o’t

Tyauvin’ fecklessly....

The wan leafs shak’ atour us like the snaw.

Here is the cavaburd in which Earth’s tint.

There’s naebody but Oblivion and us,

Puir gangrel buddies, waunderin’ hameless in’t.

The stars are larochs o’ auld cottages,

And a’ Time’s glen is fu’ o’ blinnin’ stew.

Nae freen’ly lozen skimmers: and the wund

Rises and separates even me and you.[15]

I ken nae Russian and you ken nae Scots.

We canna tell oor voices frae the wund.

The snaw is seekin’ everywhere: oor herts

At last like roofless ingles it has f’und,

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 Thocht

Is reishlin’ grey abune....

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 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.

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 heard

The clunk o’ nameless banes;

A grisly thistle dirlin’ shrill

Abune the broken stanes.

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 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’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 land

But this infernal Thistle kills....

Nae mair I see

As aince I saw

Mysel’ in the thistle

Harth and haw!

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]

And kent and was creation

In a’ its coontless forms,

Or glitterin’ in raw sunlicht,

Or dark wi’ hurrying storms.

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 Sooth

That’s held owre lang

My Viking North

Wi’ its siren sang....

Fier comme un Ecossais.

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 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.

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!

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!...

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 gotten

Banes for evermair....

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’ 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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.

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 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 say

What turned the souls o’ men to clay,

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 fated

Aince its first cell is animated,

The fount frae which the flesh is jetted.

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 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.

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 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 such

That it can ne’er wi’ life tine touch.

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 weel

As me spun roon’ within the wheel,

The helpless forms o’ God and Deil.

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 see

The Circles o’ Infinity.

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, rit

Like skritches o’ a grain o’ grit

’Neth Juggernaut in which I sit.

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 syne

Is mair than Euclid or Einstein

Can dream o’ or’s in dreams o’ mine.

Upon the huge circumference are

As neebor points the Heavenly War

That dung doun Lucifer sae far,

And that upheaval in which I

Sodgered ’neth the Grecian sky

And in Italy and Marseilles,

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

Focht and won, and that which He

Took baith sides in hopelessly),

Less than God or I can see.

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 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 eye

The wheel in silence whirlin’ by.

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,

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 yet

To grow wings that’ll cairry it

Ayont its native speck o’ grit,

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 last

Are as a neebor’s lintel passed,

The wheel’ll tine its stature fast,

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 find

Brichten till a’ thing is defined

In the huge licht-beams o’ oor kind,

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 content

Upon the wheel in which we’re pent

In adequate enlightenment.

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,

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 see

O’ Earth and o’ Eternity

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 yet

Canna see the Infinite,

And Scotland in true scale to it.

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 in

A’e skime o’ licht as grey as tin

Flyin’ on the wheel as t’were a pin.

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 days

Through which the soul o’ man can gaze

Upon the wheel’s incessant blaze,

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 see

The rest o’ the rotundity.

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 flees

Within the Wheel, and Freedom gi’es

Frae Dust and Daith and a’ Disease,

—The drumlie doom that only weighs

On them wha ha’ena seen their place

Yet in creation’s lichtnin’ race,

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

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 seen

Till he has felt that he’s been gi’en

The stars themsels insteed o’ een,

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’e

Turned in, man’s benmaist hert to see,

And swamped in subjectivity.

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 brocht

To licht what still in vain it’s socht

Ootward maun be the bent o’ thocht.

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 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.

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’ men

E’en o’ themsels at times can ken,

—I sune saw that when I gaed ben.

The lesser wheel within the big

That moves as merry as a grig,

Wi’ mankind in its whirligig

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 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 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 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.

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 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,’

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!”

“But in this huge ineducable

Heterogeneous hotch and rabble,

Why am I condemned to squabble?”

“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.

You maun choose but gin ye’d see

Anither category ye

Maun tine your nationality.”

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!

And blessin’ on the weary wheel

Whaurever it may land them!...

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’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.

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’.

No’ her, wha on the hills langsyne I saw

Liftin’ a foreheid o’ perpetual snaw.

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

—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.

O I ha’e Silence left,

—“And weel ye micht,”

Sae Jean’ll say, “efter sic a nicht!”

THE END.

FOOTNOTES

[1] From the Russian of Alexander Blok.

[2] Freely adapted from the Russian of Alexander Blok.

[3] From the Belgian poet, George Ramaekers.

[4] Adapted from the Russian of Zinaida Hippius.

[5] Suggested by the German of Else Lasker-Schüler.

[6] Suggested by the French of Edmond Rocher.

[7] Tragical crack (Dostoevski’s term).

[8] The line which precedes these in Mallarmé’s poem is “Aimai-je un rêve?” and Wilfrid Thorley translates the passage thus:—

“Loved I Love’s counterfeit?

My doubts, begotten of the long night’s heat,

Dislimn the woodland till my triumph shows

As the flawed shadow of a frustrate rose.”

[9] The General Strike (May 1926).

[10] God-bearers.

[11] The All-Man or Pan-Human.

[12] Hermann Melville.

[13] Dostoevski.

[14] Quoted from Robert Buchanan.

[15] Dostoevski.

[16] Wicksteed’s translation of Dante’s Italian (Paradiso, canto xxxiii. 85-90) is as follows: “Within its depths I saw ingathered, bound by love in one volume, the scattered leaves of all the universe; substance and accidents and their relations, as though together fused, after such fashion that what I tell of is one simple flame.”

GLOSSARY.

- Abaw—abash, appal.

- Abies—except.

- Abordage—the act of getting on board.

- Aft’rins—the remainder, off-scourings.

- Agley—off the right line, wrong.

- Ahint—behind.

- Aiblins—perhaps.

- Aidle—foul slop.

- Aiker—motion, or break, made in water by fish swimming rapidly.

- Airgh—lack, or what anything requires to bring it up to the level.

- Airts—directions.

- Alist—to come alist; to recover from faintness or decay.

- Aroint—clear away.

- Arrears—goes backward.

- Atour—out from.

- Aucht-fit—eight-foot.

- Aumrie—cupboard.

- Awn (to)—to own.

- Avizandum—to defer decision.

- Back-hauf (to be worn to)—practically worn out.

- Backlands—Glasgow slum tenements.

- Baggit—enceinte.

- Bairn-time—a woman’s breeding-time.

- Barkin’ and fleein’—on the verge of ruin.

- Barley bree—whisky.

- Barrowsteel (to tak’ my)—to co-operate.

- Ba’s—balls.

- Bauch—sorry.

- Bawaw—an oblique look of contempt or scorn.

- Beanswaup—the hull of a bean, anything of no value.

- Beddiness—silly importunacy.

- Beeks—shows.

- Belly-thraw—colic.

- Belth—sudden swirl.

- Ben (to gang)—to go in.

- Benmaist—inmost.

- Biel—shelter.

- Bien—complacent.

- Blash—sudden onset.

- Blate—bashful.

- Blebs—drops.

- Blethers—nonsense.

- Blinnin’ stew—storm through which impossible to see.

- Blinterin’—gleaming.

- Blottie O—a school game.

- Bluffert—squall.

- Bobby—policeman.

- “Bood to”—must.

- Boss (of body)—front.

- Bratts—scum.

- Braw—handsome.

- Breenge—burst.

- Brough—ring (round moon).

- Buddies—folks.

- Buff nor stye—one thing or another.

- Buik—trunk (of body).

- Bursten kirn—difficult harvest.

- Buss—bush.

- Cairn—pile.

- Camsteerie—perverse, unmanageable.

- Cappilow (to)—outdistance.

- Carline—old woman, witch.

- Cavaburd—dense snowstorm.

- Chafts—chops.

- Cheatrie—deceit, fraud.

- Chitterin’—trembling violently, shivering.

- Chowed—chewed.

- Chowl (to)—twist, distort.

- Chuns—sprouts or germs.

- Claft—shrunken.

- Claith—cloth.

- Claught (to)—to grab at.

- Cleg—gad-fly.

- Cleiks—the merest adumbration.

- Clints—cliffs.

- Clyre—tumour, gland.

- Clytach—balderdash.

- Cod—pillow.

- Come-doon—degradation.

- Connached—abused, spoiled.

- Coom—comb.

- Coonter—counter.

- Corbaudie comes in—that is the obstacle.

- Cordage—tackling of a ship.

- Corneigh—enough (lit. cœur ennuyé, internally disquieted).

- Cottons—cottar houses.

- Coupin’—overturning, emptying.

- Courage-bag—scrotum.

- Couthie—comfortable.

- Coutribat—struggle.

- Cree (legs wi’)—not safe to meddle with.

- Creel—in a state of mental excitement or confusion or physical agony.

- Crockats up—on (one’s) dignity.

- Cross-brath’d—braided.

- Cross-tap—mizzen-mast.

- Crottle—crumble away.

- Cuckold—hoodwinked, diddled.

- Cude—barrel.

- Cull—testicle.

- Cullage—genitals.

- Dander—temper.

- Datchie—sly, secret.

- Daunton—overawe.

- Deef—deaf, unimpressionable.

- Deemless—countless.

- Derf—taciturn, cruel.

- Dern—hide.

- Ding—bang down.

- Doited—mad.

- Donnert—dazed, stupefied.

- Dottlin’—maundering.

- Doup—backside.

- Dour—intractable.

- Dowf—hollow, gloomy, inert.

- Dowless—imponderable.

- Dowse—quench.

- Dozent—stupid.

- Drobs—falls like hail.

- Drookit—soaked.

- Drumlie—troubled, discoloured.

- Dumb-deid—midnight.

- Dwamin’—overpowering.

- Dwinin’—dwindling.

- Eel-ark—breeding ground for eels.

- Eemis—ill-poised.

- Een—eyes.

- Eident—busy.

- Eisenin’—lustful.

- Elbuck—elbow.

- Ettle—aspire.

- Faburdun—faux bourdon.

- Fair—completely.

- Fanerels—accessories.

- Fank o’ tows—coil of ropes.

- Fankles—becomes clumsy.

- Fantice—whimsicality.

- Farles—filaments of ash.

- Fash—trouble.

- Feck—majority.

- Fecklessly—impotently.

- Ferlies—wonders.

- Fey—fated.

- Fidge—move.

- Figuration—harmony.

- File—defile.

- Flauchter—flutters.

- Flaught—abased.

- Flech—flea.

- Fleg—frighten.

- Flet—flit.

- Forfochen—completely tired out.

- Forgether—meet.

- Fork-in-the-wa’—means of diverting share of labour pains to husband.

- Fou’—drunk.

- Foudrie—lightning.

- Fousome—disgusting.

- Fratt—fretwork.

- Fraucht—cargo.

- Freaths—plumes of foam or froth.

- Fremt—friendless, isolated.

- Foziest—most stupid.

- Fullyery—(lit.) foliage.

- Gaadies—bloomers, howlers, gaffes.

- Gaff—hook for fish.

- Galliard—rapid dance.

- Gallus—reckless.

- Gammons—feet.

- Gangrel—wanderer.

- Ganien—rodomontade.

- Gantin’—yawning.

- Gantrees—planks for putting barrel on.

- Gausty—ghastly, ascetic.

- Gaw (to have a)—to have a catch upon.

- Gealed—congealed.

- Geg—trick, deception.

- Gell—on the gell, on the go.

- Gemmell—double harmony.

- Get—bastard.

- Gey—very.

- Geylies—very much.

- Gill-ha’—pub of all weathers, hostelry of life.

- Gird—hoop.

- Glaur—mud.

- Gleg—eager.

- Gleids—sparks.

- Glisk—gleam, glance.

- Glit—slime.

- Gloffs—darknesses appearing denser than other parts of atmosphere.

- Glower—gaze at.

- Goam—gaze stupidly at.

- Gorded—frosted.

- Goustrous—frightful.

- Gowk-storm—storm of short duration (sub-sense of foolish fuss).

- Gowls—hollows, opposite of gloffs.

- Gree (to bear off)—carry off the palm.

- Grieshuckle—embers.

- Grue—revulsion.

- Grugous—ugly.

- Gruntle—pig’s nose.

- Gurly—savage.

- Guts—bowels.

- Gy—spectacle.

- Haggis—unknown.

- Hain—preserve.

- Hair (kaimed to lift)—on the go.

- Hairst—harvest.

- Happit—covered.

- Harns—brains.

- Harth—lean.

- Hauflins—adolescent boys.

- Haw—hollow.

- Heich-skeich—irresponsible.

- Hod’n—hidden.

- Howd—shorn down.

- Howe—hollow.

- How-dumb-deid—midnight.

- Howff—public-house.

- Hwll—ululation.

- Ilka—every.

- Ingangs—intestines.

- Ingles—hearths.

- Inklins—intuitions.

- Jag—prick.

- Jalouse—guess.

- Jaup—splash.

- Jizzen—child-bed, lit. in the straw.

- Jouk—dodge.

- Kaa—drive.

- Kaim—comb.

- Keethins—circles betraying fish’s movements.

- Kelter—waggle.

- Keltie—bumper.

- Kilted (in a tippit)—hung in a noose.

- Kink (to)—bend or twist.

- Kirk or mill (to mak’ a)—to do the best one can.

- Kist—chest, breast.

- Kittle (adj.)—ticklish.

- Kittle (to)—tickle.

- Knool—pin or peg.

- Kyths—appears, shows.

- Larochs—foundations.

- Lave—rest.

- Lear—learning.

- Leed—strain.

- Liddenin’—going backwards and forwards.

- Lift—sky.

- Little-bodies—fairies.

- Lochan—little loch.

- Loppert—coagulated.

- Lourd—heavy, over-charged, cloudy.

- Lowe—flame.

- Lowse—free, loosen.

- Lozen—window.

- Lugs—ears.

- Maikless—matchless.

- Mapamound—map of the world.

- Marrow (winsome)—a creditable limb.

- Mells—mixes.

- Mirlygoes—dazzle.

- Mocage—banter, irony, contempt.

- Mochiness—closeness.

- Moniplies—intestines.

- Moosewob—spider’s web.

- Muckle—big.

- Muckle Toon (p. 17)—Langholm in Dumfriesshire.

- Mum—silent.

- Munkie—rope with noose at end.

- Munks—swings away.

- Mutchkin—liquor measure, half-bottle.

- Nae mowse—perilous.

- Natheless—nevertheless.

- Natter—rant.

- Neist—next.

- Nesh—full of awareness.

- Nocht—nothing.

- Oorie—weird.

- Ootby—outside.

- Ootcuissen—outcast.

- Ootrie—outré.

- Orra—not up to much.

- Peepy-show—cinema.

- Peerie—spinning-top.

- Penny wheep—small ale.

- Pickle—small quantity.

- Pirn—reel.

- Plumm—deep pool.

- Pokiness—congestion.

- Prick-sang—compositions.

- Quean—lass, woman.

- Quenry—reminiscences of dealings with women.

- Raff (of rain)—a few streaks of rain.

- Ragments—odds and ends.

- Ramel—branches.

- Ratt-rime—incantations for killing rats.

- Rax—strain.

- Recoll—reminiscences.

- Reishlin’—rustling.

- Reistit—dried.

- Ripe—search.

- Rippit—rumpus.

- Ripples—diarrhœa.

- Rit—scrape.

- Rived—torn.

- Rooky—misty.

- Root-hewn—awkward.

- Rouk—smoke, mist.

- Row’d—rolled, wrapped up.

- Rowin’—rolling.

- Rumple-fyke—itch in anus.

- Runkled—wrinkled.

- Samyn—deck of ship.

- Sclatrie—obscenities.

- Scount—small example.

- Scouth—scope.

- Scunner (to)—disgust.

- Scunnersome—repulsive.

- Seilfu’—blissful.

- Sentrices—scaffolding.

- Ser’—serve.

- Shasloch—loose straw, litter.

- Sheckle—wrist.

- Sibness—relationship.

- Siccar (to mak’)—to make certain.

- Sinnen—sinew.

- Shoon—shoes.

- Skime—gleam.

- Skinklan’—shining, twinkling.

- Skirl-i’-the-pan—fried oatmeal.

- Slorp—lap up, slobber over.

- Slounge—sharp fall.

- Sonsy—contented.

- Spalin’—burning away.

- Spiel—climb.

- Spier—ask.

- Splairgin’—spluttering.

- Stang—paroxysm.

- Sta’-tree—pole for tethering cattle to.

- Steekin’—shutting.

- Stegh—glut.

- Stented—appointed.

- Stertle-a-stobie—exhalations.

- Stour—dust.

- Stramash—rumpus.

- Stramulyert—panic-stricken.

- Strawns—strings or chains.

- Swack—active, supple.

- Swaw—ripple.

- Swippert—lively.

- Swith wi’ virr—vehement.

- Swither—hesitate.

- Syne—thereafter.

- Taigled—entangled.

- Tapsalteerie—topsy-turvy.

- Thieveless—impotent.

- Thorter-ills—paralytic seizures.

- Thow—thaw.

- Thowless—impotent.

- Thrang—busy.

- Thring—shrug.

- Toom (to)—empty.

- Toories—pom-poms.

- Twaesome—the two of them.

- Tyauve (to)—struggle.

- Ugsome—ugly, horrid.

- Ullage—deficiency in contents of barrel.

- Unco—very.

- Unkennable—unknowledgable.

- Vennel—lane, narrow street.

- Vieve—vivid.

- Wab—web.

- Wae—woeful.

- Waesome—woeful.

- Waesucks—alas.

- Wanchancy—unfortunate.

- Waun’ert—confused.

- Waur—worse.

- Weird—fate.

- Weirdless—worthless.

- Wheengin’—complaining.

- Wheesht—hush.

- Whummle—overturn.

- Widdifow—perverse.

- Windlestrae—straw.

- Wizened—shrunk.

- Worm-i’-the-cheek—toothache.

- Wuppit—winding, wound round.

- Yabblin’—gabbling.

- Yank—throw.

- Ygdrasil—(Celtic) Tree of Life.

Printed in Great Britain by

WILLIAM BLACKWOOD & SONS LTD.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A DRUNK MAN LOOKS AT THE THISTLE ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works provided that:

- • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”

- • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.

- • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work.

- • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™

Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.

Table of Contents

A Drunk Man Looks At The Thistle

TO F. G. SCOTT.

AUTHOR’S NOTE.

A DRUNK MAN LOOKS AT THE THISTLE.

FOOTNOTES

GLOSSARY.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE