The Complete Works. Robert Burns

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      Let other poets raise a fracas

      ‘Bout vines, an’ wines, an’ dru’ken Bacchus,

      An’ crabbit names and 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 even 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 an’ 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 morning

      In cog or dicker,

      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 airn 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 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.

      When neibors 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!

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