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Robert Burns - Scotch DrinkRobert Burns - Scotch Drink
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Let other poets raise a fracas Bout vines, and 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. 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, 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! On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, In souple scones, the wale o` food! Or tumbling in the boiling flood     Wi` kail an 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 thee The wheels o` life gae down-hill, scrievin,     Wi` rattlin glee. Thou clears the head o` doited Lear, Thou cheers the heart o` drooping Care; Thou strings the nerves o` Labour sair,     At `s weary toil; Thou ev`n brightens dark Despair     Wi` gloomy smile. Aft, clad in massy siller weed, Wi gentles thou erscts 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 Or reekin 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 freath     I` th` lugget caup! Then Burnewin comes on like death     At every chaup. Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel: The brawnie, bainie, 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 fumblin coofs 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-brie     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 hardly, in a winter season,     E`er spier her price. Wae worth that brandy, burnin trash! Fell source o` monie a pain an brash! Twins monie a poor, doylt, drucken 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 Eorbes` charter`d boast     Is taen awa! They curst horse-leeches o` th` Excise, 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 damn`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.
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