While I sit at the board, Well seasoned with drinking, And wish for the thing That lies nearest my thinking, 'Tis the little brown jug That my eye will detain, And when once I have seen it I'd see it again! IV. The men of the country May jeer and may gibe, That I rank with the penniless Beggarly tribe; But though few are my cattle, I'll still find a way For a drop in my bottle, Till I'm under the clay. V. There's a grumpy old fellow, As proud as a king, Whose lambs will be dying By scores in the spring, Drinks three bottles a year, Most sober of men, But dies a poor sinner Like Callum o' Glen. VI. When I'm at the market, With a dozen like me Of proper good fellows That love barley-bree, I sit round the table, And drink without fear, For my good-wife says only, "God bless you, my dear!" VII. Though I'm poor, what of that? I can live and not steal, Though pinched at a time By the high price of meal. There's good luck with God, And He gives without measure; And while He gives health, I can pay for my pleasure. VIII. Very true that my drink Makes my money go quicker; Yet I'll not take a vow To dispense with good liquor: In my own liquid way I'd be great amongst men,-- Now you know what to think Of good Callum o' Glen. Chapter XIX. WILLIAM ROSS, THE GAIRLOCH BARD.