Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink, Inspire me, till I lisp and wink, Let husky Wheat the haughs adorn, Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood, Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin'; The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin', Thou clears the head o' doited Lear; Thou even brightens dark Despair Aft, clad in massy silver 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 art the life o' public haunts; When gaping they besiege the tents, That merry night we get the corn in, In cog or bicker, An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in, When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, I' the lugget caup! Then Burnewin comes on like death Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel; Till block an' studdie ring an' reel When skirlin weanies see the light, Thou maks the gossips clatter bright. How fumlin' cuifs their dearies slight; Nae howdie gets a social night, When neebors anger at a plea, It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee, Alake! that e'er my Muse had reason An' hardly, in a winter's season, Wae worth that brandy, burning trash, An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well! W' bitter, deathfu' wines to mell, May gravels round his blather wrench, Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch Out owre a glass o' whiskey-punch O Whiskey! soul o' plays an' pranks! Thou comes they rattle i̇' their ranks -s! Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost! For loyal Forbes' chartered boast Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise, Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still An deal't about as thy blind skill YE Irish Lords, ye Knights an' Squires, Wha represent our burghs an' shires, In parliament; To you a simple Poet's prayers Alas! my roupet Muse is hearse! Your honors' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce, To see her sittin on her a—e, Low i' the dust, An' scriechin out prosaic verse, An' like to brust! Tell them wha hae the chief direction, An' rouse them up to strong conviction, An' move their pity. This was written before the act anent the Scotch distilleries, of session 1786; for which Scotland and the author return their most grate ful thanks. |