Maist Thocht’s like whisky—a thoosan’ under proof,
And a sair price is pitten on’t even than.
As Kirks wi’ Christianity ha’e dune,
Burns’ Clubs wi’ Burns—wi’ a’thing it’s the same,
The core o’ ocht is only for the few,
Scorned by the mony, thrang wi’ts empty name.
And a’ the names in History mean nocht
To maist folk but “ideas o’ their ain,”
The vera opposite o’ onything
The Deid ’ud awn gin they cam’ back again.