Yank oot your orra boughs, my hert!

God gied man speech and speech created thocht,
He gied man speech but to the Scots gied nocht
Barrin’ this clytach that they’ve never brocht
To onything but sic a Blottie O
As some bairn’s copybook micht show,

A spook o’ soond that frae the unkent grave
In which oor nation lies loups up to wave
Sic leprous chuns as tatties have
That cellar-boond send spindles gropin’
Towards ony hole that’s open,

Like waesome fingers in the dark that think
They still may widen the ane and only chink
That e’er has gi’en mankind a blink
O’ Hope—tho’ ev’n in that puir licht
They s’ud ha’e seen their hopeless plicht.

This puir relation o’ my topplin’ mood,
This country cousin, streak o’ churl-bluid,
This hopeless airgh ’twixt a’ we can and should,
This Past that like Astarte’s sting I feel,
This arrow in Achilles’ heel.

Yank oot your orra boughs, my hert!

Mebbe we’re in a vicious circle cast,
Mebbe there’s limits we can ne’er get past,
Mebbe we’re sentrices that at the last
Are flung aside, and no’ the pillars and props
O’ Heaven foraye as in oor hopes.

Oor growth at least nae steady progress shows,
Genius in mankind like an antrin rose
Abune a jungly waste o’ effort grows,
But to Man’s purpose it mak’s little odds,
And seems irrelevant to God’s….

Eneuch? Then here you are. Here’s the haill story.
Life’s connached shapes too’er up in croons o’ glory,
Perpetuatin’, natheless, in their gory
Colour the endless sacrifice and pain
That to their makin’s gane.

The roses like the saints in Heaven treid
Triumphant owre the agonies o’ their breed,
And wag fu’ mony a celestial heid
Abune the thorter-ills o’ leaf and prick
In which they ken the feck maun stick.

Yank oot your orra boughs, my hert!

A mongrel growth, jumble o’ disproportions,
Whirlin’ in its incredible contortions,
Or wad-be client that an auld whore shuns,
Wardin’ her wizened orange o’ a bosom
Frae importunities sae gruesome,

Or new diversion o’ the hormones
Mair fond o’ procreation than the Mormons,
And fetchin’ like a devastatin’ storm on’s
A’ the uncouth dilemmas o’ oor natur’
Objectified in vegetable maitter.

Yank oot your orra boughs, my hert!

And heed nae mair the foolish cries that beg
You slice nae mair to aff or pu’ to leg,
You skitin’ duffer that gar’s a’body fleg,
—What tho’ you ding the haill warld oot o’ joint
Wi’ a skier to cover-point!

Yank oot your orra boughs, my hert!

There was a danger—and it’s weel I see’t—
Had brocht ye like Mallarmé to defeat:—
“Mon doute, amas de nuit ancienne s’achève
En maint rameau subtil, qui, demeuré les vrais
Bois même, prouve, hélas! que bien seul je m’offrais
Pour triomphe le faute idéale des roses.”

Yank oot your orra boughs, my hert!…

 

from A Drunk Man Looks at Throbbing Thistle