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;
But mony daily weet their weasan’
Wi’ liquors nice,
An’ hardly, in a winter’s season,
E’er spier her price.
Wae worth that brandy, burning trash!
Fell source o’ mony a pain an’ brash!
Twins mony a poor, doylt, drucken hash,
O’ half his days;
An’ sends, beside, auld Scotland’s cash
To her warst faes.
Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well,
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell,
Poor plackless devils like mysel’!
It sets you ill,
Wi’ bitter, dearthfu’ wines to mell,
Or foreign gill.
May gravels round his blather wrench,
An’ gouts torment him, inch by inch,
Wha twists his gruntle wi’ a glunch
O’ sour disdain,
Out owre a glass o’ whisky punch
Wi’ honest men!...
Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost!
Scotland, lament frae coast to coast!
Now colic-grips an’ barkin’ hoast
May kill us a’;
For loyal Forbes’ charter’d boast
Is ta’en awa!
Thae curst horse-leeches o’ th’ Excise,
Wha mak the whisky stells their prize—
Haud up thy hand, deil! Ance—twice—thrice!
There, seize the blinkers!
An’ bake them up in brunstane pies
For poor damn’d drinkers.
Fortune! if thou’ll but gie me still
Hale breeks, a bannock, and a gill,
An’ rowth o’ rhyme to rave at will,
Tak’ a’ the rest,
An’ deal’d about as thy blind skill
Directs thee best.
ANOTHER OF THE SAME
Let half-starv’d slaves in warmer skies
See future wines rich-clust’ring rise;
Their lot auld Scotland ne’er envies,
But, blythe an’ frisky,
She eyes her free-born martial boys
Tak aff their whisky.
What tho’ their Phœbus kinder warms,
While fragrance blooms an’ beauty charms,
When wretches range in famish’d swarms
The scented groves,
Or, hounded forth, dishonour arms
In hungry droves.
Their gun’s a burden on their shouther;
They downa bide the stink o’ powther;
Their bauldest thought’s a hank’ring swither
To stan’ or rin,
Till skelp! a shot—they’re aff, a’ throu’ther,
To save their skin.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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