By Robert Burns.

No churchman am I, for to rail and to write, No statesman nor soldier, to plot or to fight; No sly man of business, contriving to snare - For a big-bellied bottle's the whole of my care.

The peer I don't envy; I give him his bow;

I scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so slow;

But a club of good fellows, like those that are here,

And a bottle like this are my glory and care.

Here passes the squire, on his brother - his horse; There, centum per centum, the cit with his purse; But see you The Crown, how it waves in the air ! There a big-bellied bottle still eases my care.

The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die; For sweet consolation to church I did fly; I found that old Solomon proved it fair, That a big-bellied bottle's a cure for all care.

I once was persuaded a venture to make; A letter informed me that all was a wreck; But the pursy old landlord just waddled up-stairs With a glorious bottle that ended my cares.

" Life's cares they are comforts," a maxim laid down By the bard, what d'ye caJl him ? that wore the black gown; And faith, I agree with th' old prig to a hair; For a big-bellied bottle's a haven of care.

Then, fill up a bumper, and make it overflow, The honours masonic prepare for the throw; May every true brother of the compass and square Have a big-bellied bottle when harass'd with care.