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Part XIIIPart XIII
Part XIII
Scotch Drink
Gie him strong drink until he wink,
That`s sinking in despair;
An` liquor guid to fire his bluid,
That`s prest wi` grief and care:
There let him bouse, an` deep carouse,
Wi` bumpers flowing o`er,
Till he forgets his loves or debts,
An` minds his griefs no more.
Solomon`s Proverbs, xxxi. 6, 7.
Let other poets raise a fracas
"Bout vines, an` wines, an` drucken Bacchus,
An` crabbit names an`stories wrack us,
An` grate our lug:
I sing the juice Scotch bear 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 an` 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,
Wi` rattlin glee.
Thou clears the head o`doited Lear;
Thou cheers ahe heart o` drooping Care;
Thou strings the nerves o` Labour sair,
At`s weary toil;
Though 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;
His weep drap parritch, or his bread,
Thou kitchens fine.
Thou art the life o` public haunts;
But thee, what were our fairs and rants?
Ev`n godly meetings o` the saunts,
By thee inspired,
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 mornin
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` luggit caup!
Then Burnewin comes on like death
At every chap.
Nae mercy then, for airn or steel;
The brawnie, banie, ploughman chiel,
Brings hard owrehip, wi` sturdy wheel,
The strong forehammer,
Till block an` studdie ring an reel,
Wi` dinsome clamour.
When skirling weanies see the light,
Though maks the gossips clatter bright,
How fumblin` cuiffs their dearies slight;
Wae worth the name!
Nae howdie gets a social night,
Or plack frae them.
When neibors anger at a plea,
An` just as wud as wud can be,
How easy can the barley brie
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 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.
Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well!
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,
An` gouts torment him, inch by inch,
What twists his gruntle wi` a glunch
O` sour disdain,
Out owre a glass o` whisky-punch
Wi` honest men!
O Whisky! soul o` plays and pranks!
Accept a bardie`s gratfu` thanks!
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks
Are my poor verses!
Thou comes-they rattle in their ranks,
At ither`s a-s!
Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost!
Scotland lament frae coast to coast!
Now colic grips, an` barkin hoast
May kill us a`;
For loyal Forbes` charter`d boast
Is ta`en awa?
Thae curst horse-leeches o` the` Excise,
Wha mak the whisky stells their prize!
Haud up thy han`, Deil! ance, twice, thrice!
There, seize the blinkers!
An` bake them up in brunstane pies
For poor damn`d drinkers.
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.
The Auld Farmer`s New-Year-Morning Salutation To His Auld Mare, Maggie
On giving her the accustomed ripp of corn to hansel in the New Year.
A Guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie!
Hae, there`s a ripp to thy auld baggie:
Tho` thou`s howe-backit now, an` 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 bonie 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.
It`s now some nine-an`-twenty year,
Sin` thou was my guid-father`s mear;
He gied me thee, o` tocher clear,
An` fifty mark;
Tho` it was sma`, `twas weel-won gear,
An` thou was stark.
When first I gaed to woo my Jenny,
Ye then was trotting wi` your minnie:
Tho` 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 bonie bride:
An` sweet an` gracefu` she did ride,
Wi` maiden air!
Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide
For sic a pair.
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 an` skeigh,
An` stable-meals at fairs were dreigh,
How thou wad prance, and snore, an` skreigh
An` tak the road!
Town`s-bodies ran, an` stood abeigh,
An` ca`t thee mad.
When thou was corn`t, an` I was mellow,
We took the road aye like a swallow:
At brooses thou had ne`er a fellow,
For pith an` speed;
But ev`ry tail thou pay`t them hollowm
Whare`er thou gaed.
The sma`, droop-rumpl`t, hunter cattle
Might aiblins waur`t thee for a brattle;
But sax Scotch mile, thou try`t their mettle,
An` gar`t them whaizle:
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle
O` saugh or hazel.
Thou was a noble fittie-lan`,
As e`er in tug or tow was drawn!
Aft thee an` I, in aught hours` gaun,
In guid March-weather,
Hae turn`d sax rood beside our han`,
For days thegither.
Thou never braing`t, an` fetch`t, an` fliskit;
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,
An` spread abreed thy weel-fill`d brisket,
Wi` pith an` power;
Till sprittie knowes wad rair`t an` riskit
An` slypet owre.
When frosts lay lang, an` snaws were deep,
An` threaten`d labour back to keep,
I gied thy cog a wee bit heap
Aboon the timmer:
I ken`d my Maggie wad na sleep,
For that, or simmer.
In cart or car thou never reestit;
The steyest brae thou wad hae fac`t it;
Thou never lap, an` sten`t, and breastit,
Then stood to blaw;
But just thy step a wee thing hastit,
Thou snoov`t awa.
My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a`,
Four gallant brutes as e`er did draw;
Forbye sax mae I`ve sell`t awa,
That thou hast nurst:
They drew me thretteen pund an` twa,
The vera warst.
Mony a sair daurk we twa hae wrought,
An` wi` the weary warl` fought!
An` mony an anxious day, I thought
We wad be beat!
Yet here to crazy age we`re brought,
Wi` something yet.
An` think na`, my auld trusty servan`,
That now perhaps thou`s less deservin,
An` thy auld days may end in starvin;
For my last fow,
A heapit stimpart, I`ll reserve ane
Laid by for you.
We`ve worn to crazy years thegither;
We`ll toyte about wi` ane anither;
Wi` tentie care I`ll flit thy tether
To some hain`d rig,
Whare ye may nobly rax your leather,
Wi` sma` fatigue.
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