I am not asked out to drinking parties and have never been in a Rose Street pub. I can't be a poet. - Helen Cruickshank

Sae smoor yersel', my man, </br> Pit oot yer licht, </br> Grey hair that's tow </br> To a lassie's lowe </br> Is an unco sicht.

The man that mates wi’ Poverty
An’ clasps her tae his banes,
Will faither lean an’ lively thochts,
A host o’ eident weans.

Criticism in Scotland, of books as well as plays, is often bedevilled because we all know each other too well. The clique can cast its chill over its rivals; the claque delude with false praise.