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 an' 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' drunken 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, And Aits set up their awnie horn, An' Pease an' 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 tumbling in the boiling flood Wi' kail and' beef; But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood, There thou shines chief. Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin; Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin, When heavy-dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin; But oil'd by theee, The wheels o' life gae down-hill scrievin, Wi' rattlin glee. Thou clears the head o' doited Lear; Thou chears the heart o' drooping Care; Thou strings the nerves o' Labor sair, At's weary toil; Thou ev'n 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 wee 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 inspir'd, 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 reekan 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'd freath I' the lugget caup! Then Burnewin comes on like Death At ev'ry chaup. 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 skirlin weanies see the light, Thou maks the gossips clatter bright, How fumbling cuifs their dearies slight, Wae worth the name! Nae Howdie gets a social night, Or plack frae them. When neebors anger at a plea, An' just as wud as wud can be, How easy can the barley-bree 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 monie daily weet their weason Wi' liquors nice, An'd hardly, in a winter season, E'er spier her price. Wae worth that Brandy, burning trash! Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash! Twins monie a poor, doylt, drunken 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, Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch O' sour disdain, Out owre a glass o' Whisky punch Wi' honest men! O Whisky! soul o' plays an' pranks! Accept a Bardie's gratefu' thanks! When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks Are my poor verses! Thou comes - they rattle i' their ranks At ither's arses! 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' th' Excise, Wha mak the Whisky Stells their prize! Haud up thy han' Deil! ance, twice, thrice! There, sieze the blinkers! An' bake them up in brunstane pies For poor d__n'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. Back The Selkirk Grace Some hae meat and canna eat, And some would eat that want it; But we hae meat, and we can eat, Sae let the Lord be thankit. Back to Itinerary The Inventory 1786 In answer to a mandate by the Surveyor of the Taxes Sir, as your mandate did request, I send you here a faithfu' list, O' gudes an' gear, an' a' my graith, To which I'm clear to gi'e my aith. Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, I hae four brutes o' gallant mettle, As ever drew afore a pettle. My hand-afore 's a guid auld has-been, An' wight an' wilfu' a' his days been: My hand-ahin 's a weel gaun fillie, That aft has borne me hame frae Killie. An' your auld borough mony a time In days when riding was nae crime. But ance, when in my wooing pride I, like a blockhead, boost to ride, The wilfu' creature sae I pat to, (Lord pardon a' my sins, an' that too!) I play'd my fillie sic a shavie, She's a' bedevil'd wi' the spavie. My furr-ahin 's a wordy beast, As e'er in tug or tow was traced. The fourth's a Highland Donald hastle, A damn'd red-wud Kilburnie blastie! Foreby a cowt, o' cowts the wale, As ever ran afore a tail: Gin he be spar'd to be a beast, He'll draw me fifteen pund at least. Wheel-carriages I ha'e but few, Three carts, an' twa are feckly new; An auld wheelbarrow, mair for token, Ae leg an' baith the trams are broken; I made a poker o' the spin'le, An' my auld mither brunt the trin'le. For men, I've three mischievous boys, Run-deils for ranting an' for noise; A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t' other: Wee Davock hauds the nowt in fother. I rule them as I ought, discreetly, An' aften labour them completely; An' aye on Sundays duly, nightly, I on the Questions targe them tightly; Till, faith! wee Davock's grown sae gleg, Tho' scarcely langer than your leg, He'll screed you aff Effectual Calling, As fast as ony in the dwalling. I've nane in female servant station, (Lord keep me aye frae a' temptation!) I hae nae wife-and thay my bliss is, An' ye have laid nae tax on misses; An' then, if kirk folks dinna clutch me, I ken the deevils darena touch me. Wi' weans I'm mair than weel contented, Heav'n sent me ane mae than I wanted! My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess, She stares the daddy in her face, Enough of ought ye like but grace; But her, my bonie, sweet wee lady, I've paid enough for her already; An' gin ye tax her or her mither, By the Lord, ye'se get them a' thegither! And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, Nae kind of licence out I'm takin: Frae this time forth, I do declare I'se ne'er ride horse nor hizzie mair; Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle, Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle; My travel a' on foot I'll shank it, I've sturdy bearers, Gude the thankit! The kirk and you may tak you that, It puts but little in your pat; Sae dinna put me in your beuk, Nor for my ten white shillings leuk. This list, wi' my ain hand I wrote it, The day and date as under noted; Then know all ye whom it concerns, Subscripsi huic, Robert Burns. Mossgiel, February 22, 1786. Back to Addresses On A Scotch Bard, Gone To The West Indies 1786 A' ye wha live by sowps o' drink, A' ye wha live by crambo-clink, A' ye wha live and never think, Come, mourn wi' me! Our billie 's gien us a' a jink, An' owre the sea! Lament him a' ye rantin core, Wha dearly like a random splore; Nae mair he'll join the merry roar; In social key; For now he's taen anither shore. An' owre the sea! The bonie lasses weel may wiss him, And in their dear petitions place him: The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him Wi' tearfu' e'e; For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him That's owre the sea! O Fortune, they hae room to grumble! Hadst thou taen aff some drowsy bummle, Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble, 'Twad been nae plea; But he was gleg as ony wumble, That's owre the sea! Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear; 'Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear, In flinders flee: He was her Laureat mony a year, That's owre the sea! He saw Misfortune's cauld nor-west Lang mustering up a bitter blast; A jillet brak his heart at last, Ill may she be! So, took a berth afore the mast, An' owre the sea. To tremble under Fortune's cummock, On a scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, Wi' his proud, independent stomach, Could ill agree; So, row't his hurdies in a hammock, An' owre the sea. He ne'er was gien to great misguidin, Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in; Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding; He dealt it free: The Muse was a' that he took pride in, That's owre the sea. Jamaica bodies, use him weel, An' hap him in cozie biel: Ye'll find him aye a dainty chiel, An' fou o' glee: He wad na wrang'd the vera deil, That's owre the sea. Farewell, my rhyme-composing billie! Your native soil was right ill-willie; But may ye flourish like a lily, Now bonilie! I'll toast you in my hindmost gillie, Tho' owre the sea! Back to Toasts