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!

from A Drunk Man Looks At Throbbing Thistle