by Robert Burns
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill,
Say, such is Royal George’s will,
An’ there’s the foe,
He has nae thought but how to kill
Twa at a blow.
No cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him;
Death comes, wi’ fearless eye he sees him;
Wi’ bluidy han’ a welcome gies him;
An’ when he fa’s,
His latest draught o’ breathin lea’es him
In faint huzzas.
Sages their solemn een may steek,
An’ raise a philosophic reek,
An’ physically causes seek,
In clime an’ season,
But tell me Whisky’s name in Greek,
I’ll tell the reason.
Scotland, my auld, respected Mither!
Tho’ whyles ye moistify your leather,
Till whare ye sit, on craps o’ heather,
Ye tine your dam;
FREEDOM and WHISKY gang thegither,
Tak aff your dram!
Scotch Drink
Gie him strong Drink until he wink.
That’s sinking in despair;
And 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 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 chears the heart o’ drooping Care;
Thou strings the nerves o’ Labor-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 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 skirling 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 monie 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’ 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 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.
Address to the Deil
O Prince, O chief of many throned pow’rs,
That led th’ embattl’d Seraphim to war –
Milton
O Thou, whatever title suit thee!
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie!
Wha in yon cavern grim an’ sootie,
Clos’d under hatches,
Spairges about the brunstane cootie,
To scaud poor wretches!
Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
An’ let poor, damned bodies bee;
I’m sure sma’ pleasure it can gie,
Ev’n to a deil,
To skelp an’ scaud poor dogs like me,
An’ hear us squeel!
Great is
thy pow’r, an’ great thy fame;
Far kend an’ noted is thy name;
An’ tho’ yon lowan heugh’s thy hame,
Thou travels far;
An’ faith! thou’s neither lag nor lame,
Nor blate nor scaur.
Whyles, ranging like a roaran lion,
For prey, a’ holes an’ corners tryin;
Whyles, on the strong-wing’d tempest flyin,
Tirlan the kirks;
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin,
Unseen thou lurks.
I’ve heard my rev’rend Graunie say,
In lanely glens ye like to stray;
Or where auld, ruin’d castles, gray,
Nod to the moon,
Ye fright the nightly wand’rer’s way,
Wi’ eldritch croon.
When twilight did my Graunie summon,
To say her prayers, douse, honest woman!
Aft ‘yont the dyke she’s heard you bumman,
Wi’ eerie drone;
Or, rustling, thro’ the boortries coman,
Wi’ heavy groan.
Ae dreary, windy, winter night,
The stars shot down wi’ sklentan light,
Wi’ you, myself, I gat a fright,
Ayont the lough;
Ye, like a rass-buss, stood in sight,
Wi’ waving sugh.
The cudgel in my nieve did shake,
Each bristl’d hair stood like a stake,
When wi’ an eldritch, stoor quaick, quaick,
Amang the springs,
Awa ye squatter’d like a drake,
On whistling wings.
Let Warlocks grim, an’ wither’d Hags,
Tell how wi’ you on ragweed nags,
They skim the muirs an’ dizzy crags,
Wi’ wicked speed;
And in kirk-yards renew their leagues,
Owre howcket dead.
Thence, countra wives, wi’ toil an’ pain,
May plunge an’ plunge the kirn in vain;
For Oh! the yellow treasure’s taen
By witching skill;
An’ dawtet, twal-pint Hawkie’s gane
As yell’s the bill.
Thence, mystic knots mak great abuse,
On Young-Guidmen, fond, keen an’ croose;
When the best wark-lume i’ the house,
By cantraip wit,
Is instant made no worth a louse,
Just at the bit.
When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord,
An’ float the jinglan icy boord,
Then water-kelpies haunt the foord,
By your direction,
An’ nighted trav’llers are allur’d
To their destruction.
An’ aft your moss-traversing spunkies
Decoy the wight that late an’ drunk is:
The bleezan, curst, mischievous monkies
Delude his eyes,
Till in some miry slough he sunk is,
Ne’er mair to rise.
When Mason’s mystic word an’ grip,
In storms an’ tempests raise you up,
Some cock or cat, your rage maun stop,
Or, strange to tell!
The youngest brother ye wad whip
Aff straught to Hell.
Lang syne in Eden’s bonie yard,
When youthfu’ lovers first were pair’d,
An’ all the Soul of Love they shar’d,
The raptur’d hour,
Sweet on the fragrant, flow’ry swaird,
In shady bow’r.
Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog!
Ye cam to Paradise incog,
An’ play’d on man a cursed brogue,
(Black be your fa’!)
An’ gied the infant warld a shog,
’Maist ruin’d a’.
D’ye mind that day, when in a bizz,
Wi’ reeket duds, an’ reestet gizz,
Ye did present your smoutie phiz,
’Mang better folk,
An’ sklented on the man of Uzz,
Your spitefu’ joke?
An how ye gat him i’ your thrall,
An’ brak him out o’ house an’ hal’,
While scabs an’ botches did him gall,
Wi’ bitter claw,
An’ lows’d his ill-tongu’d, wicked scrawl
Was warst ava?
But a’ your doings to rehearse,
Your wily snares an’ fechtin fierce,
Sin’ that day ∗ Michael did you pierce,
Down to this time,
Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse,
In Prose or Rhyme.
An’ now, auld Cloots, I ken ye’re thinkan,
A certain Bardie’s rantin, drinkin,
Some luckless hour will send him linkan,
To your black pit;
But faith! he’ll turn a corner jinkan,
An’ cheat you yet.
But fare-you-weel, auld Nickie-ben!
O wad ye tak a thought an’ men’!
Ye aiblens might – I dinna ken –
Still hae a stake –
I’m wae to think upo’ yon den,
Ev’n for your sake!
Extempore to Gavin Hamilton. Stanzas on Naething
To you, Sir, this summons I’ve sent,
Pray, whip till the pownie is fraething;
But if you demand what I want,
I honestly answer you – naething. –
Ne’er scorn a poor Poet like me,
For idly just living and breathing,
While people of every degree
Are busy employed about – naething. –
Poor Centum per centum may fast,
And grumble his hurdies their claithing;
He’ll find, when the balance is cast,
He’s gane to the devil for – naething. –
The Courtier cringes and bows,
Ambition has likewise its plaything;
A Coronet beams on his brows,
And what is a Coronet? – naething. –
Some quarrel the Presbyter gown,
Some quarrel Episcopal graithing,
But every good fellow will own
Their quarrel is all about – naething. –
The lover may sparkle and glow,
Approaching his bonie bit gay thing;
But marriage will soon let him know,
He’s gotten a buskit up naething. –
The Poet may jingle and rhyme,
In hopes of a laureate wreathing,
And when he has wasted his time,
He’s kindly rewarded with naething. –
The thundering bully may rage,
And swagger and swear like a heathen;
But collar him fast, I’ll engage
You’ll find that his courage is naething. –
Last night with a feminine Whig,
A Poet she could na put faith in,
But soon we grew lovingly big,
I taught her, her terrors were naething. –
Her Whigship was wonderful pleased,
But charmingly tickled wi’ ae thing;
Her fingers I lovingly squeezed,
And kiss’d her and promised her – naething. –
The priest anathemas may threat,