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!…

*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!…

*Freely adapted from the Russian of Alexander Blok.

from A Drunk Man Looks at Throbbing Thistle