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 adorn,
And 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 souple scones, the wail o' food!
Or tumblin' in the boiling flood,
Wi' kail an' beef;

But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood,
There thou shines chief.

Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin';
Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin',
When heavy dragg'd wi' pine and 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 cheers the heart o' drooping Care;
Thou strings the nerves of Labor sair,
At's weary toil;

Thou even brightens dark Despair
Wi' gloomy smile.

Aft, clad in massy silver 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 art 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 reekin' on a New-Year mornin'

In cog or bicker,

An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in,
An' gusty sucker!

When Vulcan gies his bellows breath,
An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith,
O rare to see the fizz an' freath

I' the lugget caup!

Then Burnewin comes on like death
At ev'ry chaup.

Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel;
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel',
Brings hard owre hip, with sturdy wheel,
The strong forehammer,

Till block an' studdie ring an' reel
Wi' dinsome clamor.

When skirlin weanies see the light,

Thou maks the gossips clatter bright.

How fumlin' cuifs their dearies slight;
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 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 had reason
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason;
But monie daily weet their weason
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 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,

W' bitter, deathfu' 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' whiskey-punch
Wi' honest men.

O Whiskey! 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 i̇' their ranks
At ither's a-

-s!

Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost!
Scotland, lament frae coast to coast!
Now colic grips, and barkin hoast,
May kill us a';

For loyal Forbes' chartered boast
Is ta'en awa'!

Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise,
Wha mak the whiskey stells their prize!
Haud up thy han', Deil! ance, twice, thrice!
There, seize the blinkers!
An' bake them up in brunstane pies
For poor d-n'd drinkers.

Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still
Hale breeks, a scone, an' whiskey gill,
An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will,
Tak a' the rest,

An deal't about as thy blind skill
Directs thee best.

YE Irish Lords, ye Knights an' Squires,

Wha represent our burghs an' shires,
An' doucely manage our affairs

In parliament;

To you a simple Poet's prayers
Are humbly sent.

Alas! my roupet Muse is hearse!

Your honors' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce,

To see her sittin on her a—e,

Low i' the dust,

An' scriechin out prosaic verse,

An' like to brust!

Tell them wha hae the chief direction,
Scotland an' me's in great affliction,
E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction
On Aquavitæ ;

An' rouse them up to strong conviction,

An' move their pity.

This was written before the act anent the Scotch distilleries, of session 1786; for which Scotland and the author return their most grate ful thanks.