To celebrate the centenary of the publication of A Drunk Man Looks at the Thistle by Hugh MacDiarmid, Throbbing Thistle are embarking on a project to set the whole poem to music and read by the man himself. Hopefully, it’ll be complete by the end of 2026 with at least one part posted on the Daily Reckless every week. So make sure you keep checking back to hear the latest instalment of ‘A Drunk Man Looks At Throbbing Thistle.’ Here’s part 1 :

 

Sic Transit Gloria Scotiae [I]

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 Scotiae—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…

from A Drunk Man Looks at Throbbing Thistle