A Sang Frae Thi Thistle

O Comrades O green, creep-sleekit, atween
                     hazelraw, birk n burnt-oot bust stoap. keekin oot
                                                         frae oor blades. Wur thi fuse o thi glaur. 
Wur the spreits o this haugh, wur wahtir 
                                             will-o-wisp, thi vim-pooe’r that fuels thi wheen o leaves. 
Yon purpo-flooerd, purpo-skimmer amang yer middens. 
                                         Gibberin tae thi yowdendrift, thi dreich, thi whin.
Oft huv blootert-loons breenged er us but
                                              s’been a hunner year syne ony pished fowk
gouched-doon n spak a tait wae us unner mune-licht
                                                        gloamin n thocht ocht aboot the philosophies we screive
ur mibbes aw thi wunner’s left this drookit patch?
                                             Come awa ben oor conspiracies ae green,
                                              atwixt silver-skelped lochans we blume
                                     thi stramash at the fit ae an eld poast-boax, oor stobs
                                      armin yer paths, oor toorie seeds shooglet
                                      tae thi cauld blast, barbin yer gairden, oor roots clottin
                                                               yer yird. Verdant-smeddum, emblem ae aw Scots.
Lauch we dae at oor repute, see oursels clartin thi wares
ae yer shoaps, tattoed er yer cally-dosh. 

Puir Hugh
tummlin eez wilkies in eez grave ‘e is, tae see
whit’s happened tae thi tounges n heeds ae this country.
A mind when ye wur cunts wae botto. 
Wha hinks thi fishermen cared ocht fur thi haddock?
                  
                                       Who gits gien thi keys tae their ane chains n swally’s thaim
 then cries boke? 

We’ve watched thi century birl
through the skinklan starns, thi warld’s diy-nicht jig
a wheen o chainges ben time’s whirligig.

 So yeez fucked it n yer scunnert noo, yet suhin’s keethin 
in each tummlt-terra.
 lit yon wee speedir that spindlet eez shanks
 ben cauld hairst dork tae weave eez hoose.
                                  Lit a bicycle kick, thi lichtnin
                                                   that strikes thi baw as it flits. 
The neebors who stoap thi banishment
ae a Scot who jist happened tae be born ootwith. 

Whinever yer ready tae gie it bick licks.
                                                  Here,
                                                            we’ll graw gallus
                                                                                              aw blinter n chibs.