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| LET other poets raise a fracas | |
| “Bout vines, an’ wines, an’ drucken Bacchus, | |
| An’ crabbit names an’stories wrack us, | |
| An’ grate our lug: | |
| I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us, | 5 |
| In glass or jug. | |
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| O thou, my muse! guid auld Scotch drink! | |
| Whether thro’ wimplin worms thou jink, | |
| Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink, | |
| In glorious faem, | 10 |
| Inspire me, till I lisp an’ wink, | |
| To sing thy name! | |
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| Let husky wheat the haughs adorn, | |
| An’ aits set up their awnie horn, | |
| An’ pease and beans, at e’en or morn, | 15 |
| Perfume the plain: | |
| Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, | |
| Thou king o’ grain! | |
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| On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, | |
| In souple scones, the wale o’food! | 20 |
| Or tumblin in the boiling flood | |
| Wi’ kail an’ beef; | |
| But when thou pours thy strong heart’s blood, | |
| There thou shines chief. | |
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| Food fills the wame, an’ keeps us leevin; | 25 |
| Tho’ life’s a gift no worth receivin, | |
| When heavy-dragg’d wi’ pine an’ grievin; | |
| But, oil’d by thee, | |
| The wheels o’ life gae down-hill, scrievin, | |
| Wi’ rattlin glee. | 30 |
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| Thou clears the head o’doited Lear; | |
| Thou cheers ahe heart o’ drooping Care; | |
| Thou strings the nerves o’ Labour sair, | |
| At’s weary toil; | |
| Though even brightens dark Despair | 35 |
| Wi’ gloomy smile. | |
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| Aft, clad in massy siller weed, | |
| Wi’ gentles thou erects thy head; | |
| Yet, humbly kind in time o’ need, | |
| The poor man’s wine; | 40 |
| His weep drap parritch, or his bread, | |
| Thou kitchens fine. | |
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| Thou art the life o’ public haunts; | |
| But thee, what were our fairs and rants? | |
| Ev’n godly meetings o’ the saunts, | 45 |
| By thee inspired, | |
| When gaping they besiege the tents, | |
| Are doubly fir’d. | |
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| That merry night we get the corn in, | |
| O sweetly, then, thou reams the horn in! | 50 |
| 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, | 55 |
| An’ ploughmen gather wi’ their graith, | |
| O rare! to see thee fizz an freath | |
| I’ th’ luggit caup! | |
| Then Burnewin comes on like death | |
| At every chap. | 60 |
| |
| Nae mercy then, for airn or steel; | |
| The brawnie, banie, ploughman chiel, | |
| Brings hard owrehip, wi’ sturdy wheel, | |
| The strong forehammer, | |
| Till block an’ studdie ring an reel, | 65 |
| Wi’ dinsome clamour. | |
| |
| When skirling weanies see the light, | |
| Though maks the gossips clatter bright, | |
| How fumblin’ cuiffs their dearies slight; | |
| Wae worth the name! | 70 |
| Nae howdie gets a social night, | |
| Or plack frae them. | |
| |
| When neibors anger at a plea, | |
| An’ just as wud as wud can be, | |
| How easy can the barley brie | 75 |
| 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! | 80 |
| But mony daily weet their weason | |
| Wi’ liquors nice, | |
| An’ hardly, in a winter season, | |
| E’er Spier her price. | |
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| Wae worth that brandy, burnin trash! | 85 |
| Fell source o’ mony a pain an’ brash! | |
| Twins mony a poor, doylt, drucken hash, | |
| O’ half his days; | |
| An’ sends, beside, auld Scotland’s cash | |
| To her warst faes. | 90 |
| |
| Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well! | |
| Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, | |
| Poor, plackless devils like mysel’! | |
| It sets you ill, | |
| Wi’ bitter, dearthfu’ wines to mell, | 95 |
| Or foreign gill. | |
| |
| May gravels round his blather wrench, | |
| An’ gouts torment him, inch by inch, | |
| What twists his gruntle wi’ a glunch | |
| O’ sour disdain, | 100 |
| Out owre a glass o’ whisky-punch | |
| Wi’ honest men! | |
| |
| O Whisky! soul o’ plays and pranks! | |
| Accept a bardie’s gratfu’ thanks! | |
| When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks | 105 |
| Are my poor verses! | |
| Thou comes—they rattle in their ranks, | |
| At ither’s a—s! | |
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| Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost! | |
| Scotland lament frae coast to coast! | 110 |
| Now colic grips, an’ barkin hoast | |
| May kill us a’; | |
| For loyal Forbes’ charter’d boast | |
| Is ta’en awa? | |
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| Thae curst horse-leeches o’ the’ Excise, | 115 |
| 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 d—n’d drinkers. | 120 |
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| Fortune! if thou’ll but gie me still | |
| 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 | 125 |
| Directs thee best. | |
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