Let other poets raise a
Bout vines, and wines, an drucken Bacchus,
An crabbit names an stories wrack us, An grate our lug:
I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us, In glass or Jug.
O thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch drink!
Whether thro' wimplin worms thou jink,
Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink, In glorious
Inspire me, till I lisp an wink, To sing thy name!
Let husky wheat the haughs adorn,
An aits set up their awnie horn,
An Pease and beans, at e'en or morn, Perfume the plain:
Leeze me on thee,
John Barleycorn, Thou king o' grain!
On thee aft Scotland chows her cood,
In souple scones, the wale o' food!
Or tumbling in the boiling flood Wi' kail an beef;
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood There thou shines chief.
Food fills the wame, an keeps us livin;
Tho life's a gift no worth
When heavy-dragg'd wi pine an grievin; But oil'd by
The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin, Wi' rattlin glee.
Thou clears the head o' doited Lear,
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care;
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair, At 's weary toil;
Thou ev'n brightens dark Despair Wi' gloomy smile.
Aft, clad in massy siller weed,
Wi gentles thou erscts thy head;
Yet humbly kind in time o' need, The poor man's wine:
His wee drap parritch, or his bread, Thou kitchens fine.
Thou art the life o' public haunts;
But thee, what were our fairs and rants?
Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts, By thee inspir'd,
When, gaping, they besiege the tents, Are doubly fir'd.
That merry night we get the corn in,
O sweetly, then, thou reams the
Or reekin on a New-Year mornin In cog or bicker,
An just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in, An gusty sucker!
When Vulcan gies his bellows breath,
An ploughmen gather wi their graith,
O rare! to see thee fizz an freath I' th' lugget caup!
Then Burnewin comes on like death At every chaup.
Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel:
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel,
Brings hard owrehip, wi sturdy wheel, The strong forehammer,
Till block an studdie ring an reel, Wi dinsome clamour.
When skirlin' weanies see the light,
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright,
How fumblin coofs their dearies slight; Wae worth the name!
Nae howdie gets a social night, Or plack frae them.
When neebors anger at a plea,
An just as wud as wud can be,
How easy can the barley-brie Cement the quarrel!
It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee, To taste the barrel.
Alake! that e'er my Muse has reason,
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason!
But monie daily weet their weason Wi' liquors nice,
An hardly, in a winter season, E'er spier her price.
Wae worth that brandy, burnin trash!
Fell source o' monie a pain an brash!
Twins monie a poor, doylt, drucken hash O' half his days;
An sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash To her warst faes.
Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well!
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell,
Poor, plackless devils like mysel! It sets you
Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell, Or foreign gill.
May gravels round his blather wrench,
An gouts torment him, inch by inch,
Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch O' sour
Out owre a glass o' whisky-punch Wi honest men!
O Whisky! soul o' plays an pranks!
Accept a Bardie's gratefu thanks!
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks Are my poor verses!
Thou comes—-they rattle i' their ranks, At ither's arses!
Thee,
Ferintosh!
O sadly lost!
Scotland lament frae coast to coast!
Now colic grips, an barkin hoast May kill us a';
For loyal Eorbes' charter'd boast Is taen awa!
They curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise,
Wha mak the whisky stells their prize!
Haud up thy han',
Deil! ance, twice, thrice! There, seize the blinkers!
An bake them up in brunstane pies For poor damn'd drinkers.
Fortune! if thou'll but gie me
Hale breeks, a scone, an whisky gill,
An rowth o' rhyme to rave at will, Tak a' the rest,
An deal't about as thy blind skill Directs thee best.
