They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy; By this, the sun was out o' sight, SCOTCH DRINK. Gie him strong drink, until he wink, An' liquor guid to fire his bluid, Wi' bumpers flowing o'er, Till he forgets his loves or debts, Proverbs, xxxi. 6, 7. LET other Poets raise a fracas 'Bout vines, an' wines, an' drunken Bacchus, An' crabbit names an' stories wrack us, An' grate our lug, I sing the juice Scots bear can mak us, O thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch Drink, In glorious faem, Inspire me, till I lisp and wink, To sing thy name! Let husky Wheat the haughs adorn, Perfume the plain, Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, Thou king o' grain! On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, Wi' kail an' beef; But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood, There thou shines chief. 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 Wi' gloomy smile. Aft, clad in massy silver weed, The poor man's wine, 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? By thee inspir'd, When gaping they besiege the tents, Are doubly fir'd. That merry night we get the corn in, In cog or bicker, An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in, An' gusty sucker! When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, I' th' lugget caup! Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel; The strong forehammer, Till block an' studdie ring an' reel Wi' dinsome clamour. When skirlin weanies see the light, Nae howdie gets a social night, Or plack frae them. When neebors anger at a plea, It's Cement the quarrel! aye the cheapest lawyer's fee, To taste the barrel. Alake! that e'er my Muse has reason Wi' liquors nice, An' hardly, in a winter's season, E'er spier her price. Wae worth that brandy, burning trash! An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland weel! Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, Poor plackless devils like mysel! It sets you ill, Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell, Or foreign gill. May gravels round his blather wrench, Wi' honest men. O Whisky! saul o' plays an' pranks! When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks Are my poor verses! Thou comes- -they rattle i' their ranks At ither's a-s! |