Scotch Drink.

ET other poets raise a frácas

LE

'Bout vines, an' wines, an' drucken Bacchus, An' crabbet names an' stories wrack us,

An' grate our lug;

I sing the juice Scotch bere 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 owre the brink
In glorious faem,

Inspire me, till I lisp and wink,

To sing thy name!

Let husky wheat the haughs adorn,
An' aits set up their awnie horn,
An' pease and 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 boiling flood

Wi' kail an' beef;

But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood,

There thou shines chief.

Food fills the wame, an' keeps us leevin';

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',

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 Despair

Wi' 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,

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His wee drap parritch, or his bread,

Thou kitchens fine.

Thou art the life o' public haunts;

But thee, what were our fairs and rants?

O sweetly then thou reams the horn in!
Or reekin' on a New-year mornin'

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In cog or bicker,

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' freath

I' th' lugget caup!

Then Burnewin comes on like death
At ev'ry chaup.

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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 and reel

Wi' dinsome clamour.

When neibors anger at a plea,

An' just as wud as wud can be,
How easy can the barley-bree

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!
But mony daily weet their weason

Wi' liquors nice,

An' hardly, in a winter's season,

E'er spier her price.

Wae worth that brandy, burnin' trash!
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.

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Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well!

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Ye chief, to you my tale I tell,

Poor plackless devils like mysel' !

It sets you ill,

Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell,

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
Directs thee best.

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The Auld Farmer's New-Year Morning Salutation to his Auld Mare Maggie,

ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPP OF CORN TO

A

HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR.

GUID New Year I wish thee, Maggie!
Hae-there's a ripp to thy auld baggie!
Tho' thou's howe-backit now, and knaggie,

I've seen the day

Thou could hae gaen like ony staggie

Out-owre the lay.

Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy,
An' thy auld hide as white's a daisie,
I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, an' glaizie,
A bonny gray :

He should been tight that daur't to raize thee
Ance in a day.

Thou ance was i' the foremost rank,
A filly buirdly, steeve, an' swank,
An' set weel down a shapely shank
As e'er tread yird;

An' could hae flown out-owre a stank
Like ony bird.

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It's now some nine-an'-twenty year

Sin' thou was my guid-father's meere;
He gied me thee, o' tocher clear,
An' fifty mark;

Though it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear,
An' thou was stark.

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny,
Ye then was trottin' wi' your minnie:
Though ye was trickie, slee, an' funnie,
Ye ne'er was donsie ;
But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie,
An' unco sonsie.

That day ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride
When ye bure hame my bonnie bride:
An' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride,
Wi' maiden air!

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Kyle Stewart I could bragget wide
For sic a pair.

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Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hobble,
An' wintle like a saumont-coble,

That day ye was a jinker noble

For heels an' win'!

An' ran them till they a' did wauble

Far, far behin'.

When thou an' I were young and skiegh,

An' stable-meals at fairs were driegh,

How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skriegh,

An' tak' the road!

Town's bodies ran, an' stood abiegh,

An' ca't thee mad.

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