A Drunk Man Looks at the Thistle

I amna’ fou’ sae muckle as tired—deid dune. It’s gey and hard wark’ coupin’ gless for gless Wi’ Cruivie and Gilsanquhar and the like, And I’m no’ juist as bauld as aince I wes.

The elbuck fankles in the coorse o’ time, The sheckle’s no’ sae souple, and the thrapple Grows deef and dour: nae langer up and doun Gleg as a squirrel speils the Adam’s apple.

Forbye, the stuffie’s no’ the real Mackay. The sun’s sel’ aince, as sune as ye began it, Riz in your vera saul: but what keeks in Noo is in truth the vilest “saxpenny planet.”

And as the worth’s gane doun the cost has risen. Yin canna thow the cockles o’ yin’s hert Wi’oot ha’en’ cauld feet noo, jalousin’ what The wife’ll say (I dinna blame her fur’t).