The Beauties of Burn's Poems/Scotch Drink
For other versions of this work, see Scotch Drink (Burns).
SCOTCH DRINK.
Gie him strong drink, until he wink,That's sinking in despair;And liquor gude, to fire his blude,That's prest wi' grief and care;There let him bouse, and deep carouse,Wi' bumpers flowing oʻer,Till he forgets his loves or debts,And minds his griefs no more.Solomon's Proverbs, xxxi. 6, 7.
Let other Poets raise a fracas'Bout vines, and wines, and drucken Bacchus,And crabbit names and stories wrack us,And grate our lug;I sing the juice Scots bear can mak us,In glass or jug.
O, thou my Muse! gude auld Scotch Drink,Whether thro' wimpling-worms thou jink,Or, richly brown, reant o'er the brinkIn glorious faem,Inspire me till I lisp and wink,To sing thy name!
Let husky Wheat the haughs adorn,And Aits set up their awnie horn,And Pease and Beans, at e'en and 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 boiling floodWi' kail and beef;But when thou pours thy strong heart' blood,There thou shines chief.
Food fills the wame, and keeps us livin,Tho' life's a gift no worth receiving,When heavy dragg'd wi' pine and grievin:But oil'd by thee,The wheels o' life gae down-hill scrievinWi' rattlin glee.
Thou clears the head o' doited Lair:Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care;Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair,At's weary toil;Thou ev'n brightens dark DespairWi' gloomy smile.
Aft, clad in massy siller weed,Wi' Gentles thou erects thy head,Yet humbly kind, in time of need,The poor man's wine;His wee drap parritch, or his bread,Thou kitchens fine.
Thou art the life of public haunts;But thee, what were our fairs and rants?Ev'n godly meetings o' the saints,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's morninIn cog or bicker,And just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in,And gusty sucker.
When Vulcan gies his bellows breath,And ploughmen gather wi' their graith,O rare! to see thee fizz and freathI' the luggit caup!Then Burnewin comes on like deathAt ev'ry chaup.
Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel;The brawnie, banie, ploughman chiel,rings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel,The strong forehammer,Till black and studie ring and reel,Wi' dinsome clamour,
When skirlin weanies see the light,Thou make the gossips clatter bright,How fumblin cuifs their dearies slight,Waeworth the name!Nae howdie gets a social night,Or place frae them.
When neebors anger at a plea,And just as wud as wud can be,How easy can the barley-breeCement the quarrel!It's aye the cheapest Lawyer's feeTo taste the barrel.
Alake! that e'er my Muse has reasonTo wyte her countrymen wi' treason!But monie daily wet their weasonWi' liquors nice,And hardly, in a winter's season.E'er spier her price.
Waeworth the brandy, burning trash!Fell source o' monie a pain and brash!Twins monie a poor doylt drucken hashO' hauf his days;And 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 deevils, like mysel!It sets you ill,Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to meil,Or foreign gill.
May gravels round his bladder wrench,And gouts torment him, inch by inch,Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunchO' sour disdainOut-owre a glass o' whisky-punchWi' honest men.
O Whisky! soul o' plays and pranks,Accept a Bardie's humble thanks;When wanting thee, what tuneless cranksAre my poor verses!Thou comes—they rattle i' the ranksAt 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 boastIs 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 stillHale 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 skillDirects thee best.
/
