SCOTCH DRINK.
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Gie him strong drink, until he wink,That's sinking in despair;An' liquor guid to fire his bluid,That's prest wi' grief an' care;There let him bouse, an' deep carouse,Wi' bumpers flowing o'er,Till he forgets his loves or debts,An' minds his griefs no more." SOLOMON'S PROVERB, xxxi. 6, 7. ["I here enclose you," said Burns, 20 March, 1786, to his friendKennedy, "my Scotch Drink; I hope some time before we hear the gowk,to have the pleasure of seeing you at Kilmarnock: when I intend weshall have a gill between us, in a mutchkin stoup."] Let other poets raise a fracas'Bout vines, an' wines, an' dru'ken Bacchus,An' crabbit names and 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 o'er the brink,In glorious faem,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 an' 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 tumblin' in the boilin' floodWi' 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 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. 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 even brightens dark DespairWi' gloomy smile. Aft, clad in massy, siller weed,Wi' gentles thou erects 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 an' 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 horn in!Or reekin' on a new-year morningIn cog or dicker,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' freathI' th' lugget caup!Then Burnewin comes on like DeathAt ev'ry chap. 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' reelWi' dinsome clamour. When skirlin' weanies see the light,Thou maks the gossips clatter bright,How fumblin' cuifs their dearies slight;Wae worth the name!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-breeCement the quarrel!It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee,To taste the barrel. Alake! that e'er my muse has reasonTo wyte her countrymen wi' treason!But monie daily weet their weasonWi' liquors nice,An' hardly, in a winter's season,E'er spier her price. Wae worth that brandy, burning trash!Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash!Twins monie a poor, doylt, druken hash,O' half his days;An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cashTo 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 ill,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 glunchO' sour disdain,Out owre a glass o' whiskey punchWi' honest men; O whiskey! soul o' plays an' pranks!Accept a Bardie's gratefu' thanks!When wanting thee, what tuneless cranksAre my poor verses!Thou comes--they rattle i' their ranksAt ither's a----s! Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost!Scotland lament frae coast to coast!Now colic grips, an' barkin' hoast,May kill us a';For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast,Is ta'en awa. Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise,Wha mak the whiskey stells their prize!Haud up thy han', Deil! ance, twice, thrice!There, seize the blinkers!An' bake them up in brunstane piesFor poor d--n'd drinkers. Fortune! if thou'll but gie me stillHale breeks, a scone, an' whiskey gill,An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will,Tak' a' the rest,An' deal't about as thy blind skillDirects thee best. * * * * *
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