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 an’ beans at een 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 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 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 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 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’ luggèd caup!
Then Burnewin comes on like death
At ev’ry chaup.
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 fumblin’ cuifs their dearies slight—
Wae worth the name!
Nae howdie gets a social night,
Or plack frae them.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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