But let my soul increase in me,
God dwarfed to enter my puir thocht
Expand to his true size again,
And protoplasm’s look befit
The nature o’ its destiny,
And seed and sequence be nae mair
Incongruous to ane anither,
And liquor packed impossibly
Mak’ pint-pot an eternal well,
And art be relevant to life,
And poets mair than dominies yet,
And ends nae langer tint in means,
Nor forests hidden by their trees,
Nor men be sacrificed alive
In foonds o’ fates designed for them,
Nor mansions o’ the soul stand toom
Their owners in their cellars trapped,
Nor a’ a people’s genius be
A rumple-fyke in Heaven’s doup,
While Calvinism uses her
To breed a minister or twa!

A black leaf owre a white leaf twirls,
A grey leaf flauchters in atween,
Sae ply my thochts aboot the stem
O’ loppert slime frae which they spring.
The thistle like a snawstorm drives,
Or like a flicht o’ swallows lifts,
Or like a swarm o’ midges hings,
A plague o’ moths, a starry sky,
But’s naething but a thistle yet,
And still the puzzle stands unsolved.
Beauty and ugliness alike,
And life and daith and God and man,
Are aspects o’t but nane can tell
The secret that I’d fain find oot
O’ this bricht hive, this sorry weed,
The tree that fills the universe,
Or like a reistit herrin’ crines.

Gin I was sober I micht think
It was like something drunk men see!

The necromancy in my bluid
Through a’ the gamut cheenges me
O’ dwarf and giant, foul and fair,
But winna let me be mysel’
—My mither’s womb that reins me still
Until I tae can prick the witch
And “Wumman” cry wi’ Christ at last,
“Then what hast thou to do wi’ me?”

The tug-o’-war is in me still,
The dog-hank o’ the flesh and soul,
Faither in Heaven, what gar’d ye tak’
A village slut to mither me,
Your mongrel o’ the fire and clay?
The trollop and the Deity share
My writhen form as tho’ I were
A picture o’ the time they had
When Licht rejoiced to file itsel’
And Earth upshuddered like a star.

A drucken hizzie gane to bed
Wi’ three-in-ane and ane-in-three.
O fain I’d drink until I saw
Scotland a ferlie o’ delicht,
And fain bide drunk nor ha’e’t recede
Into a shrivelled thistle syne,
As when a sperklin’ tide rins oot,
And leaves a wreath o’ rubbish there!

Wull a’ the seas gang dry at last
(As dry as I am gettin’ noo),
Or wull they aye come back again,
Seilfu’ as my neist drink to me,
Or as the sunlicht to the mune,
Or as the bonny sangs o’ men,
Wha’re but puir craturs in themsels,
And save when genius mak’s them drunk,
As donnert as their audiences,
—As dreams that mak’ a tramp a king,
A madman sane to his ain mind,
Or what a Scotsman thinks himsel’,
Tho’ naethin’ but a thistle kyths.

The mair I drink the thirstier yet,
And whiles when I’m alowe wi’ booze,
I’m like God’s sel’ and clad in fire,
And ha’e a Pentecost like this.
O wad that I could aye be fou’,
And no’ come back as aye I maun
To naething but a fule that nane
’Ud credit wi’ sic thochts as thae,
A fule that kens they’re empty dreams!

Yet but fer drink and drink’s effects,
The yeast o’ God that barms in us,
We micht as weel no’ be alive.
It maitters not what drink is ta’en,
The barley bree, ambition, love,
Or Guid or Evil workin’ in’s,
Sae lang’s we feel like souls set free
Frae mortal coils and speak in tongues
We dinna ken and never wull,
And find a merit in oorsels,
In Cruivies and Gilsanquhars tae,
And see the thistle as ocht but that!

For wha o’s ha’e the thistle’s poo’er
To see we’re worthless and believe ’t?

A’thing that ony man can be’s
A mockery o’ his soul at last.
The mair it shows’t the better, and
I’d suner be a tramp than king,
Lest in the pride o’ place and poo’er
I e’er forgot my waesomeness.
Sae to debauchery and dirt,
And to disease and daith I turn,
Sin’ otherwise my seemin’ worth
’Ud block my view o’ what is what,
And blin’ me to the irony
O’ bein’ a grocer ’neth the sun,
A lawyer gin Justice ope’d her een,
A pedant like an ant promoted,
A parson buttonholin’ God,
Or ony cratur o’ the Earth
Sma’-bookt to John Smith, High Street, Perth,
Or sic like vulgar gaffe o’ life
Sub specie aeternitatis—
Nae void can fleg me hauf as much
As bein’ mysel’, whate’er I am,
Or, waur, bein’ onybody else.

The nervous thistle’s shiverin’ like
A horse’s skin aneth a cleg,
Or Northern Lichts or lustres o’
A soul that Daith has fastened on,
Or mornin’ efter the nicht afore.