SCOTCH DRINK. Robert Burns Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T91548 Burns, Robert, 1759-1796. POEMS, CHIEFLY IN THE SCOTTISH DIALECT, BY ROBERT BURNS. Kilmarnock printed by John Wilson, M,DCC,LXXXVI. 1786 pp. 22-28. 240p.; 8⁰.

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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 bowse 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' druken Bacchus , An' crabbed 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 een 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 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 pirratch , 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 bellys breath , An' Ploughmen gather wi' their graith , O rare ! to see thee fizz an' freath I' the lugget caup ! Then Burnewin comes on like Death At ev'ry chap . 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 coofs their dearies slight , Wae worth them for't ! While healths gae round to him wha , tight , Gies famous sport . 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 , burnan trash Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash ! Twins movie a poor , doylt , druken 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' four disdain , Out owre a glass o' Whisky-punch Wi' honest men ! O Whisky ! foul 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 , fieze 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 ,