10
Rabby Burns, in mony a ditty,
Loudly sings in whisky's praise;
Sweet his sang--the mair's the pity
E'er on it he Wared sic lays.
Of a' the ills pour Caledonia
Ever preed or o'er will taste,
Brewed in hell's black Pandemonia,
Whisky's ill will skaitb her maist.
See them now! how changed wi' drinking!
A' their youthful beauty gane!
Davered, doited, daized, and blinking,
Worn to perfect skin and bane!
In the cauld month of November,
(Claise, and cash, and credit out,)
Cowering owre a dying ember
Wi' ilk face as white's a clout!
Bond, and bill, and debts a' stoppit,
Ilka sheaf solt on the bent,
Cattle, beds, and blankits roupit
Now, to pay the laird his rent.
No anither night to lodge here,
No a friend their cause to plead!
He taen on to be a sodger,
She wi' weans to beg her bread.
