I love to muse upon the skill that gangs
To mak’ the simplest thing that Earth displays,
The eident life that ilka atom thrangs,
And uses it in the appointit ways,
And a’ the endless brain that nocht escapes
That myriad moves them to inimitable shapes.

Nor to their customed form nor ony ither
New to Creation, by man’s cleverest mind,
A’ needfu’ particles first brocht thegither,
Could they wi’ timeless labour be combined.
There’s nocht that Science yet’s begood to see
In hauf its deemless detail or its destiny.

Oor een gi’e answers based on pairt-seen facts
That beg a’ questions, to ebb minds’ content,
But hoo a’e feature or the neist attracts,
Wi’ millions mair unseen, wha kens what’s meant
By human brains and to what ends may tell
—For naething’s seen or kent that’s near a thing itsel’!

Let whasae vaunts his knowledge then and syne
Sets up a God and kens His purpose tae
Tell me what’s gart a’e strain o’ maitter twine
In sic an extraordinary way,
And what God’s purpose wi’ the Thistle is
—I’ll aiblins ken what he and his God’s worth by this.

I’ve watched it lang and hard until I ha’e
A certain symp’thy wi’ its orra ways
And pride in its success, as weel I may,
In growin’ exactly as its instinct says,
Save in sae fer as thwarts o’ weather or grun’
Or man or ither foes ha’e’ts aims perchance fordone.

But I can form nae notion o’ the spirit
That gars it tak’ the difficult shape it does,
Nor judge the merit yet or the demerit
O’ this detail or that sae fer as it goes
T’ advance the cause that gied it sic a guise
As maun ha’e pleased its Maker wi’ a gey surprise.

The craft that hit upon the reishlin’ stalk,
Wi’ts gausty leafs and a’ its datchie jags,
And spired it syne in seely flooers to brak
Like sudden lauchter owre its fousome rags
Jouks me, sardonic lover, in the routh
O’ contrairies that jostle in this dumfoondrin’ growth.

What strength ’t’ud need to pit its roses oot,
Or double them in number or in size,
He canna tell wha canna plumb the root,
And learn what’s gar’t its present state arise,
And what the limits are that ha’e been put
To change in thistles, and why—and what a change ’ud boot….

 

from A Drunk Man Looks at Throbbing Thistle