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).

 

from A Drunk Man Looks at Throbbing Thistle