And let me pit in guid set terms
My quarrel wi’ th’owre sonsy rose,
That roond aboot its devotees
A fair fat cast o’ aureole throws
That blinds them, in its mirlygoes,
To the necessity o’ foes.

Upon their King and System I
Glower as on things that whiles in pairt
I may admire (at least for them),
But wi’ nae claim upon my hert,
While a’ their pleasure and their pride
Ootside me lies—and there maun bide.

Ootside me lies—and mair than that,
For I stand still for forces which
Were subjugated to mak’ way
For England’s poo’er, and to enrich
The kinds o’ English, and o’ Scots,
The least congenial to my thoughts.

Hauf his soul a Scot maun use
Indulgin’ in illusions,
And hauf in gettin’ rid o’ them
And comin’ to conclusions
Wi’ the demoralisin’ dearth
O’ onything worth while on Earth….

from A Drunk Man Looks at Throbbing Thistle