Humorous Poems/Scotch Drink

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4527125Humorous Poems — Scotch DrinkRobert Burns (1759-1796)

SCOTCH DRINK.

Gie him strong drink, until he wink,
That's sinking in despair;
And liquor gude, io fire his blude,
That's prest wi' grief and care;
There let him bouse, and deep carouse,
Wi' bumpers flowing o'er,
Till he forgets his loves or 'debts,
And minds his griefs no more.
Solomon's Proverbs, xxxi. 6.

Let other poets raise a fracas
'Bout vines, and wines, and drucken Bacchus,
And crabbit names and stories wrack us,
And grate our lug;
I sing the juice Scots bear can mak us,
In glass or jug.

O thou, my Muse! gude auld Scotch Drink,
Whether through wimpling worms thou jink,
Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink
In glorious faem,
Inspire me till I lisp and wink,
To sing thy name!

Let husky Wheat the haughs adorn,
And Aits set up their awnie horn,
And Pease and Beans, at e'en and 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 and beef;
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood,
There thou shines chief.

Food fills the wame, and keeps us livin,
Though life's a gift no worth receivin,
When heavy dragg'd wi' pine and grievin:
But oil'd by thee,
The wheels o' life gae down-hill scrievin,
Wi' rattlin glee.

Thou clears the head o' doited Lair;
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care;
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair,
At's weary toil;
Thou even brightens dark Despair
Wi' gloomy smile.

Aft, clad in massy siller weed;
Wi' Gentles thou erects thy head;
Yet humbly kind, in time of 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
Even godly meetings o' the saints,
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 reekin on a New-year's mornin
In cog or bicker,
And just a wee drap spiritual burn in,
And gusty sucker.

When Vulcan gies bis bellows breath,
And ploughmen gather wi' their graith,
O rare! to see thee fizz and freath
I' the ludgit caup!
Then Burnewin comes on like death
At every chaup.

Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel;
The brawnie, banie, ploughman chiel,
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel,
The strong forehammer,
Till block and study ring and reel,
Wi' dinsome clamour.

When skirlin weanies see the light,
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright,
How fumblin cuifs their dearies slight,
Waeworth the name!
Nae howdie gets a social night
Or plack frae them.

When neebors anger at a plea,
And 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 c'er my Muse has reason
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason!
But monie daily weet their weason
Wi' liquors nice,
And hardly, in a winter's season,
E'er spier her price.

Waeworth the brandy, burning trash!
Fell source o' monie a pain and brash!
Twins monie a poor doylt drucken hash
O' hauf his days;
And 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 deevils, like mysel'!
It sets you ill,
Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to meil,
Or foreign gill.

May gravels round his bladder wrench,
And gouts, torment him, inch by inch,
Wha twists his gryntie 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 humble thanks;
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks
Are my poor verses
Thou comes—they rattle i' the ranks
At ithers' arses!

Thee, Fairntosh, O sadly lost!
Scotland, lament frae coast to coast;
Now cholic grips, and barking hoast,
May kill us a',
For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast
Is ta'en awa!

Thae curs'd loch-leeches o' the Excise,
Wha mak the whisky-stells their prize,
Haud up thy han', deil, ance, twice, thrice!
Their seize the blinkers
And bake them up in brunstane pies,
For puir d—n'd drinken.

Fortune, if thou'lt but gie me still
Hale breeks, a scene, a whisky-gill
And rowthe o' rhyme to rove at will,
Tak' a' the rest,
And deal't about as thy blind skill
Directs thee best.
Burns.