An grate our lug,

I sing the juice Scots bear can mak us,

In glass or jug

O THOU, my Muse! guid auld Scotcb Drink ! Whether throwimpling worms thou jink, Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink,

In glorious faem, Inspire me, till I lisp and wink,

To sing thy name?

LET husky Wheat the haughs adern,

An Aits set up their awnie horn,

An' Pease and 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 fouple fcones, the wale o' food !

Or tumblin in the boiling food

Wi' kail an' beef;

But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood,

There thou fhines 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 chears the heart of drooping Care; Thou strings the nerves: o' Labor fair,

At's weary toil;

Thou ev'n brightens dark Despair

Wi' gloomy smile:

.

· AFT, clad in mafly filler weed,

Wi' Gentles thou ereds 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 are the life o' public haunts;

But thee, what were our fairs and rants ?
Ev'n godly meetings of the faunts,

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 bicker An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in,

An' gusty fucker!

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' ftuddie ring an' reel

Widinfome clamour.

When

WHEY skirlin weanies see the light, Thou maks the goslips clatter bright, How fumblin cuifs their tearies'ilight:

Wae worth the name ?

Nae howdie gets a social night,

Or plack frae them.

WHEN neebors anger at a plea,

An'just as wud as wud can be,
How caly can the barley-bree

Cement the quarrel !
It's aye the cheapest lawyers fee,

To taste the barrel.

ALAKE! that e'er my Muse has reason To wyte her countrymen wi' treason!

Bat monie daily weet their weason

Wi' liquors nice,

An'