By Robert Burns.

Let other poets raise a fracas

'Bout vines, an' wines, an' druken 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 o'er 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 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 tumblin' in the boilin' 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 erects thy head: Yet humbly kind in time o' need,

The poor man's wine, His wee drap praritch, or his bread

Thou kitchens fine.

Thou art the life o' public haunts; But thee what were our fairs an' rants ! E'en 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 reckin', 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 ev'ry chap.

Nae mercy, then, for aim 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 makes the gossips clatter bright, How fumblin' cuifs 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-bree

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's season,

E'er spier her price.

Wae worth that brandy, burning trash ! Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash ! Turns monie a poor, doylt, druken hash

O' half his days; An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash

To her warst faes.

Ye Scots, who 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' whiskey punch

Wi' honest men.

O whiskey ! soul o' plays an' pranks Accept a Bardie's gratefu' thanks ! When wantin' thee, what tuneless cranks

Are my poor verses ! Thou comes - they rattle i' their ranks

At ither's a------s !

Thee Fernitosh ! O sadly lost ! Scotland lament frae coast to coast! Now colic grips an' barkin' hoast,

May kill us a', For loyal Forbes's charter'd boast

Is ta'en awa !

Thou curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise Wha mak' the whiskey stells their prize ! Haud up thy nan', Deil ! ance, twice, thrice !

There, seize the blinkers ! An' bake them up in brunstane pies

For poor d------d drinkers.

Fortune ! if thou'11 but gie me still Hale breeks, a scone, an' whiskey gill, An' rowth o' rhyme, to rave at will,

Tak' a' the rest, An' deal't about as thy blind skill

Directs thee best.