Page:Beauties of Burn's poems.pdf/110

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O Whisky! soul o' plays and pranks,
Accept a Bardie's humble thanks;
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks
Are my poor verses!
Thou comes—they rattle i' the ranks
At ither's a—s!

Thee, Fairntosh, O sadly lost!
Scotland, lament frae coast to coast;
Now cholic grips, and barking hoast,
May kill us a',
For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast
Is ta'en awa!

Thae curst loch-leeches o' th Excise,
Wha mak the Whisky-Stells their prize,
Haud up thy han', Deil, ance, twice thrice!
There seize the blinkers!
And bake them up in brunstane pies,
For poor d—n'd drinkers.

Fortune, if thou'lt but gie me still
Hale breeks, a scone, a Whisky-gill,
And rowth o'rhyme to rove at will,
Tak a' the rest,
And deal't about as thy blind skill
Directs thee best.

 

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