An' grate our lug,

Ifing the juice Scots bear can mak us,

In glass or jug.

O THOU, my Muse! guid auld Scotch Drink! Whether thro' wimpling worms thou jink,

Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink,

Inspire me, till I lifp and wink,

To fing thy name!

LET hufky Wheat the haughs adern,

An Aits fet up their awnie horn,

An' Pease and Beans at e'en or morn, wie

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 flood

Wi' kail an' beef;

But when thou pours thy ftrong 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, fcrievin,
Wi' rattlin glee.

THOU clears the head o' doited Lear;

Thou chears the heart o' drooping Care;

Thou ftrings the nerves o' Labor fair,

At's weary toil;

Thos

Thou ev'n brightens dark Despair

Wi' gloomy fmile;

AFT, clad in mafly 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 faunts,

By thee infpir'd,

When gaping they befiege the tents,

Are doubly fir'd.

THAT merry night we get the corn in, O fweetly then thou reams the horn in!

Or reekin on a New-year morning,

In cog or bicker

An' juft 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 fee 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' fturdy wheel,

The ftrong forehammer.

Till block an' ftuddie ring an' reel

Wi' dinfome clamour.

When

WHEN kirlin weanies fee the light,

Thou maks the goflips clatter bright,

How fumblin cuifs their dearies flight:

Wae worth the name ?

Nae howdie gets a focial night,

Or plack frae them.

WHEN neebors anger at a plea,

An' juft as wud as wud can be,

How eafy can the barley-bree

Cement the quarrel!

It's aye the cheapest lawyers fee,

To taste the barrel.

ALAKE! that e'er my Mufe has reafon

To wyte her countrymen wi' treafon!

But monie daily weet their weason

Wi'liquors nice,

An'