There’s nocht sae sober as a man blin’ drunk.
I maun ha’e got an unco bellyfu’
To jaw like this—and yet what I am sayin’
Is a’ the apter, aiblins, to be true.
This munelicht’s fell like whisky noo I see’t.
—Am I a thingum mebbe that is kept
Preserved in spirits in a muckle bottle
Lang centuries efter sin’ wi’ Jean I slept?
—Mounted on a hillside, wi’ the thistles
And bracken for verisimilitude,