Robert Burns (1759–1796). Poems and Songs.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
85 . Scotch Drink
L
“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.
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! 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! 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. Tho’ life’s a gift no worth receivin, But, oil’d by thee, The wheels o’ life gae down-hill, scrievin, Wi’ rattlin glee. 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. 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. 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. 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! 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. The brawnie, banie, ploughman chiel, Brings hard owrehip, wi’ sturdy wheel, The strong forehammer, Till block an’ studdie ring an reel, Wi’ dinsome clamour. 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. 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. 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. 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 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. 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! 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! 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? 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 d—n’d drinkers. 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.