Robert Burns (1759–1796). Poems and Songs.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
293 . The Whistle: A Ballad
I
I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North.
Was brought to the court of our good Scottish King,
And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall ring.
The god of the bottle sends down from his hall— “The Whistle’s your challenge, to Scotland get o’er, And drink them to hell, Sir! or ne’er see me more!” What champions ventur’d, what champions fell: The son of great Loda was conqueror still, And blew on the Whistle their requiem shrill. Unmatch’d at the bottle, unconquer’d in war, He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea; No tide of the Baltic e’er drunker than he. Which now in his house has for ages remain’d; Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood, The jovial contest again have renew’d. Craigdarroch, so famous for with, worth, and law; And trusty Glenriddel, so skill’d in old coins; And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines. Desiring Downrightly to yield up the spoil; Or else he would muster the heads of the clan, And once more, in claret, try which was the man. “Before I surrender so glorious a prize, I’ll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More, And bumper his horn with him twenty times o’er.” But he ne’er turn’d his back on his foe, or his friend; Said, “Toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field,” And, knee-deep in claret, he’d die ere he’d yield. So noted for drowning of sorrow and care; But, for wine and for welcome, not more known to fame, Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet lovely dame. And tell future ages the feats of the day; A Bard who detested all sadness and spleen, And wish’d that Parnassus a vineyard had been. And ev’ry new cork is a new spring of joy; In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set, And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet. Bright Phœbus ne’er witness’d so joyous a core, And vow’d that to leave them he was quite forlorn, Till Cynthia hinted he’d see them next morn. When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, Turn’d o’er in one bumper a bottle of red, And swore ’twas the way that their ancestor did. No longer the warfare ungodly would wage; A high Ruling Elder to wallow in wine; He left the foul business to folks less divine. But who can with Fate and quart bumpers contend! Though Fate said, a hero should perish in light; So uprose bright Phœbus—and down fell the knight. “Craigdarroch, thou’lt soar when creation shall sink! But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, Come—one bottle more—and have at the sublime! Shall heroes and patriots ever produce: So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay; The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day!”