A country girl at her wheel, There's some exception, man an' woman But this is Gentry's life in common. By this, the sun was out o' sight, 3 The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone; SCOTCH DRINK. Gie him strong drink, until he wink, An' liquor guid, to fire his bluid, Wi' bumpers flowin o'er, Till he forgets his loves or debts, An' minds his griefs no more. SOLOMON'S PROVERBS, Xxxi. 6, 4. 'Bout vines, an' wines, and drunken Bacchus, An' crabbit names an' stories wrack us, An' grate our lug, I sing the juice Scots bear can mak us, O thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch Drink In glorious faem, Inspire me, till I lisp and wink, To sing thy name! Let husky Wheat the haughs adorn, Perfume the plain, Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, Thou king o' grain On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, 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, scrieviņ, 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 even brightens dark Despair, Wi' gloomy smile. Aft, clad in massy silver weed, Wi' Gentles thou erects 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; Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts, By thee inspir'd, When gaping they besiege the tents, That merry night we get the corn in, O sweetly then thou reams the horn in! Or reekin on a New-year morning 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 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 and reel Wi' dinsome clamour. When skirlin weanies see the light, Thou maks the gossips clatter bright, How fumblin cuifs their dearies slight; Wae worth the name! Nae howdie gets a social night, Or plack frae them. * Burnewin-Buru-the-wind-the blacksmith--an appro priate title. |