Fier comme un Eccosais.

If aa that can be's mae mair
Than what mankins been yet, I'll no
Begink the instincts thistlewise
That dern - and canna show.

Dammed thrieds and thrums and skinny shapes
O aa that micht, and su'd hae been
- Life onyhow at ony price ! -
In sic I'll no be seen !

Fier comme un Eccosais.

The wee reliefs we hae in booze,
Or wun at times in carnal states,
May hide frae us but canna cheenge
The silly horrors o oor fates.

Fier comme un Eccosais.

There's muckle in the root,
That never can wun oot,
Or't owre what is 'ud sweep
Like a thunderstorm owre sheep.

But shadows while upcreep,
and heavy tremors leap...
C'waa, Daith, again, sned Life's vain shoot,
And your ain coonsel keep !...

Time like a bien wire,
Truth like a dog's gane -
The bien wife's gane to the aumrie
To get the puir dog a bane.

Opens the aumrie door,
And lo ! the skeleton's there,
And the gude dog, Truth, has gotten
Banes for evermair

Maun I tae perish in the keel o Heaven,
And is this fratt upon the air the ply
O cross-brath'd cordage that in gloffs and gowls
Braks up the vision o the warld's bright gy?

Ship's tackle and an eemis carin o fraucht
Darker than clamourin veins are roond me yet,
A plait o shadows thicker than the flesh
A fank o tows that binds me hand and fit.

What gin the gorded fullery on hie
And aa the famerels o the michty ship
Gie back mair licht than faas upn them ev'n
Gin sic black ingangs haud us in their grip? 

Grugous thistle, to my een
Your widdifow ramel evince,
Sibness to snakes wha coils
Rin coonter airts at yince,
And fain I'd follow each
Gin you the trick'll teach.

Blin root to bleezin rose,
Through aa the whirligig
O shanks and leafs and jags
What sends you sic a rig?
Bramble yokin earth and heaven,
Till they're baith stamulyert driven !

Roses to lure the lift
And roots to wile the clay
And wuppit brainches syne
To claught them 'midyards tae
Till you've the precious pair
Like hang'd men dancin there,

Wi mony a seely prickle
You'll fleg a sunburst oot,
Or kittle earthquakes up
Wi an amusin toot,
While, kilted in your tippet,
They still can mak their rippit....

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 aa 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 pooer, 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...