(11)
Ilka drink deſerves a poſey,
Port maks men rude; claret civil
Beer maks Britons ſtout and roſy,
Whisky mak's ilk wife-a Devil.
Jane, wha lately bare affliction
Wi' fae meek and mild an air,
School'd by Whiſky, learns new tricks foon,
Flyt's, and ſtorms, and rug's Will's hair.
Jane, fae late the tendereſt mither,
Fond o' ilk dear daúted wean!
Now, heart harden'd a' thegither
Skelps them round frae morn till e'en.
Jane wha vogie, loo'd to buſk aye
In her hame ſpun, thrifty wark;
Now fells a' her braw's for whiſkie
To her laſt gown, coat and ſark!
Rabby Burns, in mony a ditty
Loudly ſings in whiſkys praiſe,
Sweet his fang—the mair's the pity,
E'er on it he ward ſic lays.
O' a' the ills poor Caledonia
E'er yet pree'd, or e'er will taſte.
Brew'd in Hell's black Pandemonia,
Whiskie's ill will ſkaith her maiſt!
"Wha was ance like Willie Gairlace
“Wha in neeboring town or farm?
"Beauty's bloom ſhone in his fair face,
“Deadly ſtrength was in his arm
