And ‘Puir Auld Scotland’ bleat wi’ pride,
And wi’ their minds made up to bide
A thorn in a’ the wide world’s side.

There ha’e been Scots wha ha’e ha’en thochts,
They’re strewn through maist o’ the various lots
—Sic traitors are nae langer Scots!”

“But in this huge ineducable
Heterogeneous hotch and rabble,
Why am I condemned to squabble?”

“A Scottish poet maun assume
The burden o’ his people’s doom,
And dee to brak’ their livin’ tomb.

Mony ha’e tried, but a’ ha’e failed.
Their sacrifice has nocht availed.
Upon the thistle they’re impaled.

You maun choose but gin ye’d see
Anither category ye
Maun tine your nationality.”

And I look at a’ the random
Band the wheel leaves whaur it fand ’em.
“Auch, to Hell,
I’ll tak’ it to avizandum.” …

O wae’s me on the weary wheel,
And fain I’d understand them!

And blessin’ on the weary wheel
Whaurever it may land them!…

But aince Jean kens what I’ve been through
The nicht, I dinna doot it,
She’ll ope her airms in welcome true,
And clack nae mair aboot it….

 

from A Drunk Man Looks at Throbbing Thistle