A drunk man looks at the thistle — Reading Notes

ke 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.