Chapter 2 of 5 · 3967 words · ~20 min read

Part 2

But I’ll dance the nicht wi’ the stars o’ Heaven In the Mairket Place as shair’s I’m livin’.

Easy to cairry roses or herrin’, And the lave may weel their threepenny bits earn.

Devil the star! It’s Jean I’ll ha’e Again as she was on her weddin’ day....

Nerves in stounds o’ delight, Muscles in pride o’ power, Bluid as wi’ roses dight Life’s toppin’ pinnacles owre, The thistle yet’ll unite Man and the Infinite!

Swippert and swith wi’ virr In the howes o’ man’s hert Forever its muckle roots stir Like a Leviathan astert, Till’ts coils like a thistle’s leafs Sweep space wi’ levin sheafs.

Frae laichest deeps o’ the ocean It rises in flight upon flight, And ’yont its uttermaist motion Can still set roses alight, As else unreachable height Fa’s under its triumphin’ sight.

Here is the root that feeds The shank wi’ the blindin’ wings Dwinin’ abuneheid to gleids Like stars in their keethin’ rings, And blooms in sunrise and sunset Inowre Eternity’s yett.

Lay haud o’ my hert and feel Fountains ootloupin’ the starns Or see the Universe reel Set gaen’ by my eident harns, Or test the strength o’ my spauld The wecht o’ a’ thing to hauld!

—The howes o’ Man’s hert are bare, The Dragon’s left them for good, There’s nocht but naethingness there, The hole whaur the Thistle stood, That rootless and radiant flies A Phœnix in Paradise!...

Masoch and Sade Turned into ane Havoc ha’e made O’ my a’e brain.

Weel, gin it’s Sade Let it be said They’ve made me mad —That’ll da’e instead.

But it’s no’ instead In Scots, but insteed. —The life they’ve led In my puir heid.

But aince I’ve seen In the thistle here A’ that they’ve been I’ll aiblins wun clear.

_Thistleless fule, You’ll ha’e nocht left But the hole frae which Life’s struggle is reft!_...

Reason ser’s nae end but pleasure, Truth’s no’ an end but a means To a wider knowledge o’ life And a keener interest in’t.

We wha are poets and artists Move frae inklin’ to inklin’, And live for oor antrin lichtnin’s In the haingles atweenwhiles,

Laich as the feck o’ mankind Whence we breenge in unkennable shapes —_Crockats up, hair kaimed to the lift, And no’ to cree legs wi’!_...

We’re ootward boond frae Scotland. Guid-bye, fare-ye-weel; guid-bye, fare-ye-weel. —A’ the Scots that ever wur Gang ootward in a creel.

We’re ootward boond frae Scotland. Guid-bye, fare-ye-weel; guid-bye, fare-ye-weel. The cross-tap is a monkey-tree That nane o’ us can spiel.

We’ve never seen the Captain, But the first mate is a Jew. We’ve shipped aboord Eternity. Adieu, kind freends, adieu!...

In the creel or on the gell O’ oor coutribat and ganien. What gin ithers see or hear Naething but a gowkstorm?

Gin you stop the galliard To teach them hoo to dance, There comes in Corbaudie And turns their gammons up!...

You vegetable cat’s melody! Your _Concert Miaulant_ is A triumph o’ discord shairly, And suits my fancy fairly —I’m shair that Scott’ll agree He canna vie wi’ this....

Said my body to my mind, “I’ve been startled whiles to find, When Jean has been in bed wi’ me, A kind o’ Christianity!”

To my body said my mind, “But your benmaist thocht you’ll find Was ‘Bother what I think I feel —Jean kens the set o’ my bluid owre weel, And lauchs to see me in the creel O’ my courage-bag confined.’”...

I wish I kent the physical basis O’ a’ life’s seemin’ airs and graces.

It’s queer the thochts a kittled cull Can lowse or splairgin’ glit annul.

Man’s spreit is wi’ his ingangs twined In ways that he can ne’er unwind.

A wumman whiles a bawaw gi’es That clean abaws him gin he sees.

Or wi’ a movement o’ a leg Shows’m his mind is juist a geg.

I’se warrant Jean ’ud no’ be lang In findin’ whence this thistle sprang.

Mebbe it’s juist because I’m no’ Beddit wi’ her that gars it grow!...

A luvin’ wumman is a licht[6] That shows a man his waefu’ plicht, Bleezin’ steady on ilka bane, Wrigglin’ sinnen an’ twinin’ vein, Or fleerin’ quick an’ gane again, And the mair scunnersome the sicht The mair for love and licht he’s fain Till clear and chitterin’ and nesh Move a’ the miseries o’ his flesh....

O lass, wha see’est me As I daur hardly see, I marvel that your bonny een Are as they hadna’ seen.

Through a’ my self-respect They see the truth abject —_Gin you could pierce their blindin’ licht You’d see a fouler sicht!_...

O wha’s the bride that cairries the bunch O’ thistles blinterin’ white? Her cuckold bridegroom little dreids What he sail ken this nicht.

For closer than gudeman can come And closer to’r than hersel’, Wha didna need her maidenheid Has wrocht his purpose fell.

O wha’s been here afore me, lass, And hoo did he get in? —_A man that deed or I was born This evil thing has din._

And left, as it were on a corpse, Your maidenheid to me? —_Nae lass, gudeman, sin’ Time began ’S hed ony mair to gi’e._

_But I can gi’e ye kindness, lad, And a pair o’ willin’ hands, And you sall ha’e my briests like stars, My limbs like willow wands,_

_And on my lips ye’ll heed nae mair, And in my hair forget, The seed o’ a’ the men that in My virgin womb ha’e met_....

Millions o’ wimmen bring forth in pain Millions o’ bairns that are no’ worth ha’en.

Wull ever a wumman be big again Wi’s muckle’s a Christ? Yech, there’s nae sayin’.

Gin that’s the best that you ha’e comin’, Fegs but I’m sorry for you, wumman!

Yet a’e thing’s certain.—Your faith is great. Whatever happens, you’ll no’ be blate!...

Mary lay in jizzen As it were claith o’ gowd, But it’s in orra duds Ilka ither bairntime’s row’d.

Christ had never toothick, Christ was never seeck, But Man’s a fiky bairn Wi’ bellythraw, ripples, and worm-i’-the-cheek!...

Dae what ye wull ye canna parry This skeleton-at-the-feast that through the starry Maze o’ the warld’s intoxicatin’ soiree Claughts ye, as micht at an affrontit quean A bastard wean!

Prood mune, ye needna thring your shouder there, And at your puir get like a snawstorm stare, It’s yours—there’s nae denyin’t—and I’m shair You’d no’ enjoy the evenin’ much the less Gin you’d but openly confess!

Dod! It’s an eaten and a spewed-like thing, Fell like a little-bodies’ changeling, And it’s nae credit t’ye that you s’ud bring The like to life—yet, gi’en a mither’s love, —Hee, hee!—wha kens hoo’t micht improve?...

Or is this Heaven, this yalla licht, And I the aft’rins o’ the Earth, Or sic’s in this wanchancy time May weel fin’ sudden birth?

The roots that wi’ the worms compete Hauf-publish me upon the air. The struggle that divides me still Is seen fu’ plainly there.

The thistle’s shank scarce holes the grun’, My grave’ll spare nae mair I doot. —_The crack’s fu’ wide; the shank’s fu’ strang; A’ that I was is oot._

My knots o’ nerves that struggled sair Are weel reflected in the herb; My crookit instincts were like this, As sterile and acerb.

My self-tormented spirit took The shape repeated in the thistle; Sma’ beauty jouked my rawny banes And maze o’ gristle.

I seek nae peety, Paraclete, And, fegs, I think the joke is rich —_Pairt soul, pairt skeleton’s come up; They kentna which was which!_...

Thou Daith in which my life Sae vain a thing can seem, Frae whatna source d’ye borrow Your devastatin’ gleam?

Nae doot that hidden sun ’Ud look fu’ wae ana’, Gin I could see it in the licht That frae the Earth you draw!...

Shudderin’ thistle, gi’e owre, gi’e owre! A’body’s gi’en in to the facts o’ life; The impossible truth’ll triumph at last, And mock your strife.

Your sallow leafs can never thraw, Wi’ a’ their oorie shakin’, Ae doot into the hert o’ life That it may be mistak’n....

_O Scotland is =The= barren fig. Up, carles, up And roond it jig._

_Auld Moses took A dry stick and Instantly it Floo’ered in his hand._

_Pu’ Scotland up, And wha can say It winna bud And blossom tae._

_A miracle’s Oor only chance. Up, carles, up And let us dance!_

Puir Burns, wha’s bouquet like a shot kail blaws —Will this rouch sicht no’ gi’e the orchids pause? The Gairdens o’ the Muses may be braw, But nane like oors can breenge and eat ana’!

And owre the kailyaird-wa’ Dunbar they’ve flung, And a’ their countrymen that e’er ha’e sung For ither than ploomen’s lugs or to enrichen Plots on Parnassus set apairt for kitchen.

Ploomen and ploomen’s wives—shades o’ the Manse May weel be at the heid o’ sic a dance, As through the polish’t ha’s o’ Europe leads The rout o’ bagpipes, haggis, and sheep’s heids!

The vandal Scot! Frae Branksome’s deidly barrow I struggle yet to free a’e winsome marrow, To show what Scotland micht ha’e hed instead O’ this preposterous Presbyterian breed.

(Gin Glesca folk are tired o’ Hengler, And still need breid and circuses, there’s Spengler, Or gin ye s’ud need mair than ane to teach ye, Then learn frae Dostoevski and frae Nietzsche.

And let the lesson be—to be yersel’s, Ye needna fash gin it’s to be ocht else. To be yersel’s—and to mak’ that worth bein’. Nae harder job to mortals has been gi’en.

To save your souls fu’ mony o’ ye are fain, But de’il a dizzen to mak’ it worth the daein’. I widna gi’e five meenits wi’ Dunbar For a’ the millions o’ ye as ye are).

I micht ha’e been contentit wi’ the Rose Gin I’d had ony reason to suppose That what the English dae can e’er mak’ guid For what Scots dinna—and first and foremaist should.

I micht ha’e been contentit—gin the feck O’ my ain folk had grovelled wi’ less respec’, But their obsequious devotion Made it for me a criminal emotion.

I micht ha’e been contentit—ere I saw That there were fields on which it couldna draw, (While strang-er roots ran under’t) and a’e threid O’t drew frae Scotland a’ that it could need,

And left the maist o’ Scotland fallow (Save for the patch on which the kail-blades wallow), And saw hoo ither countries’ genius drew Elements like mine that in a rose ne’er grew....

Gin the threid haud’n us to the rose were snapt, There’s no’ a’e petal o’t that ’ud be clapt. A’ Scotland gi’es gangs but to jags or stalk, The bloom is English—and ’ud ken nae lack!...

O drumlie clood o’ crudity and cant, Obliteratin’ as the Easter rouk That rows up frae the howes and droons the heichs, And turns the country to a faceless spook.

Like blurry shapes o’ landmarks in the haar The bonny idiosyncratic place-names loom, Clues to the vieve and maikless life that’s lain Happit for centuries in an alien gloom....

_Eneuch! For noo I’m in the mood, Scotland, responsive to my thoughts, Lichts mile by mile, as my ain nerves, Frae Maidenheid to John o’ Groats!_

What are prophets and priests and kings, What’s ocht to the people o’ Scotland? Speak—and Cruivie’ll goam at you, Gilsanquhar jalouse you’re dottlin!

And Edinburgh and Glasgow Are like ploomen in a pub. They want to hear o’ naething But their ain foul hubbub....

The fules are richt; an extra thocht Is neither here nor there. Oor lives may differ as they like —The self-same fate we share.

And whiles I wish I’d nae mair sense Than Cruivie and Gilsanquhar, And envy their rude health and curse My gnawin’ canker.

Guid sakes, ye dinna need to pass Ony exam. to dee —Daith canna tell a common flech Frae a performin’ flea!...

It sets you weel to slaver To let sic gaadies fa’ —_The mune’s the muckle white whale I seek in vain to kaa!_

_The Earth’s my mastless samyn, The thistle my ruined sail._ —Le’e go as you maun in the end, And droon in your plumm o’ ale!...

Clear keltie aff an’ fill again Withoot corneigh bein’ cryit, The drink’s aye best that follows a drink. Clear keltie aff and try it.

Be’t whisky gill or penny wheep, Or ony ither lotion, We ’bood to ha’e a thimblefu’ first, And syne we’ll toom an ocean!...

“To Luna at the Craidle-and-Coffin To sof’n her hert if owt can sof’n:—

Auld bag o’ tricks, ye needna come And think to stap me in your womb.

You needna fash to rax and strain. Carline, I’ll _no_ be born again

In ony brat you can produce. Carline, gi’e owre—O what’s the use?

You pay nae heed but plop me in, Syne shove me oot, and winna be din,

—Owre and owre, the same auld trick, Cratur withoot climateric!...

“Noo Cutty Sark’s tint that ana, And dances in her skin—Ha! Ha!

I canna ride awa’ like Tam, But e’en maun bide juist whaur I am.

I canna ride—and gin I could, I’d sune be sorry I hedna stood,

For less than a’ there is to see ’ll never be owre muckle for me.

Cutty, gin you’ve mair to strip, Aff wi’t, lass—and let it rip!”...

Ilka pleesure I can ha’e Ends like a dram ta’en yesterday.

And tho’ to ha’e it I am lorn —What better ’ud I be the morn?...

My belly on the gantrees there, The spigot frae my cullage, And wow but how the fizzin’ yill In spilth increased the ullage!

I was an anxious barrel, lad, When first they tapped my bung. They whistled me up, yet thro’ the lift My freaths like rainbows swung.

Waesucks, a pride for ony bar, The boast o’ barleyhood, Like Noah’s Ark abune the faem Maun float, a gantin’ cude,

For I was thrawn fu’ cock owre sune, And wi’ a single jaw I made the pub a blindin’ swelth, And how’d the warld awa’!...

What forest worn to the back-hauf’s this, What Eden brocht doon to a bean-swaup? The thistle’s to earth as the man In the mune’s to the mune, puir chap.

The haill warld’s barkin’ and fleein’, And this is its echo and aiker, A soond that arrears in my lug Herrin’-banein’ back to its maker,

A swaw like a flaw in a jewel Or _nadryv_[7] jaloused in a man, Or Creation unbiggit again To the draucht wi’ which it began....

Abordage o’ this toom houk’s nae mowse. It munks and’s ill to lay haud o’, As gin a man ettled to ride On the shouders o’ his ain shadow.

I canna biel’t; tho’ steekin’ an e’e Tither’s munkie wi’ munebeam for knool in’t, For there’s nae sta’-tree and the brute’s awa’ Wi’ me kinkin’ like foudrie ahint....

Sae Eternity’ll buff nor stye For Time, and shies at a touch, man; Yet aye in a belth o’ Thocht Comes alist like the Fleein’ Dutchman....

As the worms’ll breed in my corpse until It’s like a rice-puddin’, the thistle Has made an eel-ark o’ the lift Whaur elvers like skirl-in-the-pan sizzle,

Like a thunder-plump on the sunlicht, Or the slounge o’ daith on my dreams, Or as to a fair forfochen man A breedin’ wife’s beddiness seems,

Saragossa Sea, St Vitus’ Dance, A _cafard_ in a brain’s despite, Or lunacy that thinks a’ else Is loony—and is dootless richt!...

Gin my thochts that circle like hobby-horses ’Udna loosen to nightmares I’d sleep; For nocht but a chowed core’s left whaur Jerusalem lay Like aipples in a heap!...

It’s a queer thing to tryst wi’ a wumman When the boss o’ her body’s gane, And her banes in the wund as she comes Dirl like a raff o’ rain.

It’s a queer thing to tryst wi’ a wumman When her ghaist frae abuneheid keeks, And you see in the licht o’t that a’ You ha’e o’r’s the cleiks....

What forest worn to the backhauf’s this, What Eden brocht doon to a beanswaup? —A’ the ferlies o’ natur’ spring frae the earth, And into’t again maun drap.

Animals, vegetables, what are they a’ But as thochts that a man has ha’en? And Earth sall be like a toom skull syne. —Whaur’ll its thochts be then?...

The munelicht is my knowledge o’ mysel’, Mysel’ the thistle in the munelicht seen, And hauf my shape has fund itsel’ in thee And hauf my knowledge in your piercin’ een.

E’en as the munelicht’s borrowed frae the sun I ha’e my knowledge o’ mysel’ frae thee, And much that nane but thee can e’er mak’ clear, Save my licht’s frae the source, is dark to me.

Your acid tongue, vieve lauchter, and hawk’s een, And bluid that drobs like haill to quicken me, Can turn the mid-day black or midnicht bricht, Lowse me frae licht or eke frae darkness free.

Bite into me forever mair and lift Me clear o’ chaos in a great relief Till, like this thistle in the munelicht growin’, I brak in roses owre a hedge o’ grief....

I am like Burns, and ony wench Can ser’ me for a time. Licht’s in them a’—in some a sun, In some the merest skime.

I’m no’ like Burns, and weel I ken, Tho’ ony wench can ser’, It’s no’ through mony but through yin That ony man wuns fer....

I weddit thee frae fause love, lass, To free thee and to free mysel’; But man and wumman tied for life True can be and truth can tell.

Pit ony couple in a knot They canna lowse and needna try, And mair o’ love at last they’ll ken —If ocht!—than joy’ll alane descry.

For them as for the beasts, my wife, A’s fer frae dune when pleesure’s owre, And coontless difficulties gar Ilk hert discover a’ its power.

I dinna say that bairns alane Are true love’s task—a sairer task Is aiblins to create oorsels As we can be—it’s that I ask.

Create oorsels, syne bairns, syne race. Sae on the cod I see’t in you Wi’ Maidenkirk to John o’ Groats The bosom that you draw me to.

And nae Scot wi’ a wumman lies, But I am he and ken as ’twere A stage I’ve passed as he maun pass’t, Gin he grows up, his way wi’ her!...

A’thing wi’ which a man Can intromit’s a wumman, And can, and s’ud, become As intimate and human.

And Jean’s nae mair my wife Than whisky is at times, Or munelicht or a thistle Or kittle thochts or rhymes.

He’s no’ a man ava’, And lacks a proper pride, Gin less than a’ the warld Can ser’ him for a bride!...

Use, then, my lust for whisky and for thee, Your function but to be and let me be And see and let me see.

If in a lesser licht I grope my way, Or use’t for ends that need your different ray Whelm’t in superior day.

Then aye increase and ne’er withdraw your licht. —Gin it shows either o’s in hideous plicht, What gain to turn’t to nicht?

Whisky mak’s Heaven or Hell and whiles mells baith, Disease is but the privy torch o’ Daith, —But sex reveals life, faith!

I need them a’ and maun be aye at strife. Daith and ayont are nocht but pairts o’ life. —Then be life’s licht, my wife!...

Love often wuns free In lust to be strangled, Or love, o’ lust free, In law’s sairly tangled.

And it’s ill to tell whether Law or lust is to blame When love’s chokit up —It comes a’ to the same.

In this sorry growth Whatna beauty is tint That freed o’t micht find A waur fate than is in’t?...