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An grate our lugg. I fing the juice Scots bear can mak us,

In glass or jug

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

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

To fing thy name!

LET husky Wheat the haughs adorn,

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 o' drooping Care; Thou strings the nerves: o' Labor fair,

At's weary toil;

Thos

"

Tlou ev'n brightens dark Despair

Wi' gloomy smile:

AFT, clad in maliy filler 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 are 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

Or reekin on a New-year morning,

In cog or bicker An' just a wee drap fp'ritual burn in,

An' gufty 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 ftrong forehammer. Till block an' ftuddie ring an' reel

Wi' dinsome clamour.

Whea

1

Whey skirlin weanies see the light, Thou maks the gollips clatter bright, How fumblin cuifs their clearies'flight:

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-vree

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! But monie daily weet their weason

Wi’liquors nice,

An'

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