O would they stay aback frae courts,
An' please themselves wi' country sports,
It wad for every ane be better,
The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotter!
For thae frank, rantin' ramblin' billies,
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows;
Except for breaking o'er their timmer,'
Or speaking lightly o' their limmer,2
Or shootin' o' a hare or moor-cock,
The ne'er a bit they 're ill to poor folk.
But will ye tell me, Master Cæsar,
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure!
Nae cauld or hunger e'er can steer 3 them,
The vera thought o't needna fear them.
Lord, man, were ye but whyles whare I am,
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em.
It's true, they need na starve or sweat,
Through winter's cauld, or simmer's heat;
They 've nae sair wark to craze their banes,
An' fill auld age with grips an' granes:
But human bodies are sic fools,
For a' their colleges and schools,
That when nae real ills perplex them,
They mak' enow themsels to vex them;
An' aye the less they hae to sturt1 them,
In like proportion less will hurt them;
A country fellow at the pleugh,
His acres tilled, he's right eneugh;
A country girl at her wheel,
Her dizzens done, she's unco weel:
But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst,
Wi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curst.
They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy;
Though deil haet hails them, yet uneasy;
Their days insipid, dull an' tasteless:
Their nights unquiet, lang an' restless;
2 Light of love.
5 Dozens, i.e., task.
An' e'en their sports, their balls, an' races,
Their galloping through public places.
There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art,
The joy can scarcely reach the heart.
The men cast out in party matches,
Then sowther1a' in deep debauches :
Ae night they 're mad wi' drink an' wh-ring,
Niest day their life is past enduring.
The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,
As great and gracious a' as sisters;
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither,
They're a' run deils an' jads thegither.
Whyles o'er the wee bit cup an' platie,
They sip the scandal potion pretty;
Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks
Pore owre the devil's pictured beuks;2
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard,
An' cheat like onie unhanged blackguard.
There's some exception, man an' woman;
But this is Gentry's life in common.
By this, the sun was out o' sight,
An' darker gloaming brought the night:
The bum-clock 3 hummed wi' lazy drone;
The kye stood rowtin i' the loan; 5
When up they gat, and shook their lugs,
Rejoiced they were na men but dogs;
An' each took aff his several way,
Resolved to meet some ither day.
Gie him strong drink, until he wink,
That's sinking in despair;
An' liquor guid to fire his bluid,
That's prest wi' grief an' care;
There let him bouse, an' deep carouse,
Wi' bumpers flowing o'er,
Till he forgets his loves or debts,
An' minds his griefs no more.
SOLOMON'S PROVERBS, xxxi. 6, 7.
LET other Poets raise a fracas
'Bout vines, an' wines, an' drunken Bacchus,
3 The humming-beetle that flies about in the summer twilight.
An' crabbit names an' stories wrack us,
An' grate our lug,
I sing the juice Scots bear can mak' us,
In glass or jug.
O thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch Drink;
Whether through wimpling worms thou jink,2
Or, richly brown, ream3 o'er the brink,
In glorious faem,
Inspire me, till I lisp and wink,
To sing thy name!
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood,
There thou shines chief.
Food fills the wame,' an' keeps us livin';
Though life's a gift no worth receivin',
When heavy dragged wi' pine an' grievin';
But oiled by thee,
The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin',
Thou clears the head o' doited 11 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 silver weed,12
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?
Even godly meetings o' the saunts,'
By thee inspired,
When gaping they besiege the tents,
Are doubly fired.
That merry night we get the corn in,
O sweetly then thou reams the horn in!
Or reeking on a New-year mornin'
An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in,
An' gusty sucker !3
When Vulcan gies his bellows breath,
An' ploughman gather wi' their graith,*
O rare! to see thee fizz an' freath
I' th' lugget caup!5
Then Burnewin" comes on like death
At every chaup.
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 and reel
Wi' dinsome clamour.
When skirlin' weanies? see the light,
Thou mak's the gossips clatter bright,
How fumblin' cuifs their dearies slight;
Wae worth the name!
Nae howdie9 gets a social night,
Or plack 10 frae them.
When neebors anger at a plea,
An' just as wudas wud can be,
How easy can the barley-bree
Cement the quarrel!
It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee,
To taste the barrel.
1 Out-door communions. See "Holy Fair." 3 A taste of sugar.
5 Wooden cup with handles.
6 Burnewin-burn-the-wind-the blacksmith-an appropriate title.
7 Screaming weanies. 8 Awkward fools. 10 An old Scotch coin, the third part of a which made an English penny.
Alake! that e'er my Muse has reason
To wyte' her countrymen wi' treason!
But monie daily weet their weason 2
Wi' liquors nice,
An' hardly, in a winter's season,
E'er spier her price.
Wae worth that brandy, burning trash!
Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash!
Twins 5 monie a poor, doylt, drunken 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 glunch10
O' sour disdain,
Out owre a glass of whisky punch
Wi' honest men.
O Whisky! soul o' plays an' pranks!
Accept a Bardie's humble thanks!
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks
Are my poor verses!
Thou comes- -they rattle i' their ranks
4 Illness.
7 Penniless.
10 Grin.
A cant term for whisky distilled at Mr. Forbes's barony of that nanie. Duncan Forbes, of Culloden, was permitted by the Government to distil whisky free of expense; this permission had been revoked at the period of Burns writing this poem.
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