Perhaps a clout may fall in’t

But Deil a foreign tinkler loon

Shall ever ca’ a nail in’t!

Our fathers’ blude the kettle bought,

And wha wad dare to spoil it,

By Heav’ns! the sacrilegious dog

Shall fuel be to boil it!

The wretch that would a tyrant own,

And the wretch, his true-sworn brother,

Who would set the mob above the throne,

May they be damn’d together!

Who will not sing God Save the King

Shall hang as high’s the steeple;

But while we sing God Save the King,

We’ll ne’er forget the people!

SCOTTISH
CULTURAL HISTORY

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 and care:

There let him bowse, and deep carouse,

Wi bumpers flowing o’er,

Till he forgets his loves or debts,

An minds his griefs no more. –

– SOLOMON’S PROVERBS, CH. 31ST, v. 6, 7

Let other poets raise a fracas

’Bout vines, and wines, an drucken 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 owre 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 and 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 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 parritch, 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 reekin on a New-Year mornin

In cog or bicker,

An just a wee drap spritual 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 every chap.