Jag har redan nämnt hur jag älskar Skottland. Hur kan jag då låta bli att älska Hugh MacDiarmid? Han dikter är underbara. Måhända att jag inte delar hans politiska uppfattning, men det spelar inte så stor roll förutom i hans dikter om Lenin.. Han skriver omväxlande på engelska och någonting som är skottska, eller gaelic. Varsågod.
Well Hung -- You shall be, my dear, One of El Greco's holy figures, Lithe and undulating And bluishly spiritual, And I one of Ribera's Wrinkled black heads, Ferocious with torture, And we shall hang On opposite walls Of a small private gallery Belonging to an obese financer Forever And Ever.	A Last Song (Withered Wreaths) ---- The heavens are lying like wreaths Of dead flowers breaking to dust Round the broken column of Time. Like a fitful wind and a cold That rustles the withered stars And the wisps of space is my song. Like a fitful wind and a cold That whistles awhile and fails Round the broken column of Time.	The Dying Earth ---- Pitmirk the nicht: God's waukrife yet An' lichtnin'-like his glances flit An' sair, sair are the looks he gies The auld earth as it dees. Pitmirk the nicht: an' God's 'good tell I' broken thunners to hissel' A' that he meent the warl' to be An' hoo his plan gaed jee. He canna steek his weary lids But aye anither gey look whids Frae pole to pole: an's tears doonfa' In lashin' rain owre a'.