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!…

 

from A Drunk Man Looks at Throbbing Thistle