An' purge the bitter ga's an' cankers,
O' curst Venetian b-res an' ch-ncres.*
For Britain's guid! for her destruction!
Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction!

LUATH.

Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate,
They waste sae mony a braw estate!
Are we sae foughten and harass'd
For gear to gang that gate at last!

O would they stay aback frae courts,
An' please themsels wi' countra sports,
It wad for ev'ry ane be better,

The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotter!
For thae frank, rantan, ramblan billies,
Fient haet o' them's ill hearted fellows;
Except for breakin o' their timmer,
Or speakin lightly o' their Limmer,
Or shootin of a hare or moorcock,
The ne'er-a-bit they're ill to poor folk.
But will ye tell me, master Cæsar,
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure?
Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them,
The vera thought o't need na fear them.

CÆSAR.

L-d man, were ye but whyles where I am,
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy them!

It's true, they need na starve or sweat,
Thro' Winter's cauld, or Summer's heat;
They've nae sair-wark to craze their banes,
An' fill auld-age wi' grips an' granes;
But human-bodies are sic fools,
For a' their colledges an' schools,
That when nae real ills perplex them,
They mak enow themsels to vex them;
An' ay the less they hae to sturt them,
In like proportion, less will hurt them.

* Altered, in 1787, to

"And clear the consequential sorrows,
Love-gifts of Carnival Signioras."

1

A country fellow at the pleugh,
His acre's till'd, he's right eneugh;
A country girl at her wheel,

Her dizzen's done, she's unco weel;
But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst,
Wi' ev'n down want o' wark are curst.
They loiter, lounging, lank an' lazy ;
Tho' deil-haet ails them, yet uneasy;
Their days, insipid, dull an' tasteless,
Their nights, unquiet, lang an' restless.
An' ev'n their sports, their balls an' races,
Their galloping thro' public places,
There's sic parade, sic pomp an' art,
The joy can scarcely reach the heart.
The Men cast out in party-matches,
Then sowther a' in deep debauches.
Ae night, they're mad wi' drink an' wh-ring,
Niest day their life is past enduring.

The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,
As great an' gracious a' as sisters;
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither
They're a' run deils an' jads thegither.
Whyles, owre the wee bit cup an' platie,
They sip the scandal-potion pretty;
Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbet leuks,
Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks;
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard,
An' cheat like ony unhang'd blackguard.
There's some exceptions, man an' woman;
But this is Gentry's life in common.

By this, the sun was out o' sight,
An' darker gloamin brought the night:
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone,
The kye stood rowtan i' the loan;
When up they gat an' shook their lugs,
Rejoic'd they were na men but dogs;
An' each took off his several way,
Resolv'd to meet some ither day.

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.

[It has been pointed out by former editors that this poem must have been composed on the model of Robert Fergusson's "Caller Water," but the resemblance consists only in the measure being the same, and in the one celebrating aqua-vitæ, while the other cries up aqua-fontis. That our poet had read the Poems of Fergusson before "Scotch Drink" was composed at the close of the year 1785, we know from his autobiography, in which he says, referring to his unlucky winter of 1781-82 in the town of Irvine, "Rhyme I had given up; but meeting with Fergusson's Scottish Poems, I strung anew my wildly-sounding lyre with emulating vigour: " yet it is curious to observe in part of the same letter referred to in our head-note to the Twa Dogs, that in February, 1786, Burns did not possess a copy of Fergusson's Poems, which he requests his friend in Edinburgh to procure for him, and despatch by the Mauchline Carrier.]

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 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!

*Corrected to "parritch" in 1787.

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!

*Corrected to "bellows" in 1787. † Corrected to "chaup" in 1787.

Altered, in 1787, to

"Wae worth the name!

Or plack frae them."

Nae Howdie gets a social night,