1 Cuchullin’s dog in Ossian’s Fingal, R.B.
2 The quarterly Circuit Court that travelled around the towns and counties of Scotland.
3 The title of Factor is that of an Estate manager, who, in the West of Scotland, cleared many ‘cottars’ from large estates during the late 18th century.
Scotch Drink
First printed in the Kilmarnock edition, 1786.
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 bowse, and 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. I.
A paraphrase from Hugh Blair’s The Grave, p. 8.
Let other Poets raise a frácas
‘Bout vines, an’ wines, an’ drucken Bacchus, drunken
An’ crabbed names an’ stories wrack us, torment
An’ grate our lug: vex, ears
5 I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us, drink, barley
In glass or jug.
O thou, my MUSE! guid auld SCOTCH DRINK! good old
Whether thro’ wimplin worms thou jink, winding, frisk
Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink, froth over
10 In glorious faem, foam
Inspire me, till I lisp an’ wink,
To sing thy name!
Let husky Wheat the haughs adorn, hollows
An’ Aits set up their awnie horn, oats, bearded
15 An’ Pease an’ Beans, at een or morn,
Perfume the plain:
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, blessing on thee
Thou king o’ grain!
On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, often, chews, cud
20 In souple scones, the wale o’ food! soft, pick
Or tumbling in the boiling flood
Wi’ kail an’ beef; greens
But when thou pours thy strong heart’s blood,
There thou shines chief.
25 Food fills the wame, an’ keeps us livin; belly
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, go, careering
30 Wi’ rattlin glee. noisy joy
Thou clears the head o’ doited Lear, muddled knowledge
Thou cheers the heart o’ drooping Care;
Thou strings the nerves o’ Labor-sair, sore
At’s weary toil;
35 Thou ev’n brightens dark Despair
Wi’ gloomy smile.
Aft, clad in massy, siller weed, often clothed
Wi’ Gentles thou erects thy head;
Yet, humbly kind, in time o’ need,
40 The poorman’s wine:
His wee drap parritch, or his bread, drop, porridge
Thou kitchens fine.
Thou art the life o’ public haunts;
But thee, what were our fairs and rants? without, merry-makings
45 Ev’n goodly meetings o’ the saunts, saints
By thee inspir’d,
When, gaping, they besiege the tents,
Are doubly fir’d.
That merry night we get the corn in,
50 O sweetly, then, thou reams the horn in!
Or reekin on a New-Year-mornin steaming
In cog or bicker, bowl, jug
An’ just a wee drap sp’ritual burn in, small drop
An’ gusty sucker! tasty sugar
55 When Vulcan gies his bellys breath, gives, bellows
An’ Ploughmen gather wi’ their graith, gear
O rare! to see thee fizz an’ fraeth bubble and froth
I’ the lugget caup! two-handled jug
Then Burnewin comes on like Death blacksmith
60 At ev’ry chap. stroke
Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel: no, iron
The brawnie, bainie, Ploughman-chiel, sturdy, boney, fellow
Brings hard owrehip, wi’ sturdy wheel, over hip
The strong forehammer,
65 Till block an’ studdie ring an’ reel, anvil
Wi’ dinsome clamour.
When skirlin weanies see the light, squalling infants
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright. makes, chatter, cheerfully
How fumbling coofs their dearies slight; fools
Wae worth the name! woe betide
Nae Howdie gets a social night, no midwife
Or plack frae them. coin
When neebors anger at a plea, neighbours
An’ just as wud as wud can be, mad/wild
75 How easy can the barley-bree -brew
Cement the quarrel!
It’s ay the cheapest Lawyer’s fee,
To taste the barrel.
Alake! that e’er my Muse has reason,
80 To wyte her countrymen wi’ treason! blame/charge
But mony daily weet their weason many, wet their throat
Wi’ liquors nice,
An’ hardly, in a winter season,
E’er spier her price. ask
85 Wae worth that Brandy, burnin trash! woe to
Fell source o’ monie a pain an’ brash! sickness
Twins mony a poor, doylt, drucken hash, (deprives many,
O’ half his days; weary drunken fellow)
An’ sends, beside, auld Scotland’s cash old
To her warst faes. worst foes
Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well, who, old
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell,
Poor, plackless devils like mysel, penniless
It sets you ill,
95 Wi’ bitter, dearthfu’ wines to mell, meddle
Or foreign gill.
May Gravels round his blather wrench, stones, bladder
An’ Gouts torment him, inch by inch,
Wha twists his gruntle wi’ a glunch who, mouth, grumble
100 O’ sour disdain,
Out owre a glass o’ Whisky-punch over
Wi’ honest men!
O Whisky! soul o’ plays an’ pranks!
Accept a Bardie’s gratefu’ thanks!
105 When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks
Are my poor Verses!
Thou comes — they rattle i’ their ranks
At ither’s arses!
Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost!
110 Scotland lament frae coast to coast! from
Now colic-grips, an’ barkin hoast coughing hoarse
May kill us a’;
For loyal Forbes’ Chartered boast
Is taen awa! taken away
115 Thae curst horse-leeches o’ th’ Excise, those
Wha mak the Whisky stills their prize! who make
Haud up thy han’, Deil! ance, twice, thrice! hold, hand, once
There, seize the blinkers! rascals/spies
An’ bake them up in brunstane pies brimstone
120 For poor damn’d Drinkers.
Fortune! if thou’ll but gie me still give
Hale breeks, a scone, an’ Whisky gill, whole breeches
An’ rowth o’ rhyme to rave at will, abundance/store
Tak a’ the rest,
125 An’ deal’t about as thy blind skill
Directs thee best.
Though not quite in the manner of his contemporary, William Blake, Burns found The Bible a constant source of inspiration and allusion. This vernacularisation of Proverbs with which he introduces the poem is characteristic of his delight in the often excessively erotic, violent and, in this case, alcoholic tales he found in The Old Testament. Such use of The Bible was not the least of his anti-clerical weapons. Nor was it the least of his offences against Hugh Blair and the pietistic critical sensibilities of genteel Edinburgh.
A copy of Scotch Drink was sent to Robert M
uir in March, 1786, having been apparently written sometime in the preceding winter. This celebratory ‘hymn’ to the virtues of the national drink again owes its genesis and tone to the bibulous gaiety which pulses through Robert Fergusson’s poetry. In particular it is related to Fergusson’s Caller Water and A Drink Eclogue with its disputation between Brandy and Whisky. As in Fergusson’s poems, whisky is ever the vital, democratising, somewhat chauvinistic heart’s blood of the nation, energising and socialising everybody with whom it comes into contact. The sad exception is the impotent, cuckolded husband of ll. 67–72.
In ll. 102–8 Burns also associates whisky with the power to energise his own poetic creativity so that the quality of his verses catches up with those of his poetic competitors. We cannot know to what degree alcohol was a creative stimulant for Burns, though certainly some of his most extraordinary letters are self-confessedly written with well-plied glass in hand. See, for example, Letter 506 to Alexander Cunningham.
The reference in l. 109 to Ferintosh as Kinsley tells us, is that this Cromarty Firth whisky had been exempted from duty after 1695 in reparation for damage to the estates of Forbes of Culloden, the owner of the distillery, by the Jacobites in 1689. Forbes’ loss of this privilege in 1785 drove the price of whisky up.
The penultimate stanza’s consignment of the Excise to the fires of hell for their still-breaking activities must have caused Burns subsequent guilty grief. The Excise was the most hated and efficient arm of a state that had nothing to do with welfare and everything to do with intrusive, punitive taxation. Had he known it, Burns would have wholeheartedly agreed with Blake that ‘Lawful Bread, Bought with Lawful Money, & a Lawful Heaven, seen thro’ a Lawful Telescope, by means of a Lawful Window Light! The Holy Ghost, & whatever cannot be Taxed, is Unlawful & Witchcraft’.
The Author’s Earnest Cry and Prayer
To The Scotch Representatives In The House of Commons1
First printed in the Kilmarnock edition, 1786.
Dearest of distillation! last and best —
— How art thou lost! —
Parody on Milton.
Ye Irish lords, ye knights an’ squires,
Wha represent our BRUGHS an’ SHIRES, who, burghs
An’ doucely manage our affairs prudently
In Parliament,
5 To you a simple Bardie’s pray’rs
Are humbly sent.
Alas! my roupet Muse is haerse! husky, hoarse
Your Honors’ hearts wi’ grief ’twad pierce, it would
To see her sittan on her arse
10 Low i’ the dust,
And scriechan out prosaic verse, screeching
An’ like to brust! burst
Tell them wha hae the chief direction, who have
Scotland an’ me’s in great affliction,
15 E’er sin’ they laid that curst restriction ever since
On AQUAVITAE whisky/water-of-life
An’ rouse them up to strong conviction,
An’ move their pity.
Stand forth, an’ tell yon PREMIER YOUTH
20 The honest, open, naked truth:
Tell him o’ mine an’ Scotland’s drouth, thirst
His servants humble:
The muckle devil blaw you south, great, blow
If ye dissemble!
25 Does onie great man glunch an’ gloom? any, growl, grumble
Speak out, an’ never fash your thumb! trouble yourself
Let posts an’ pensions sink or soom swim
Wi’ them wha grant ’em: who
If honestly they canna come, cannot
30 Far better want ’em. lack them
In gath’rin votes you were na slack; not lazy
Now stand as tightly by your tack:
Ne’er claw your lug, an’ fidge your back, scratch your ear, shrug
An’ hum an haw;
35 But raise your arm, an’ tell your crack tale
Before them a’.
Paint Scotland greetan owre her thrissle; weeping, over, thistle
Her mutchkin stowp as toom’s a whissle; pint-pot, empty as a whistle
An’ damn’d Excise-men in a bustle,
40 Seizin a Stell, still
Triumphant, crushan’t like a mussel,
Or laimpet shell. limpet
Then on the tither hand present her, other
A blackguard Smuggler right behint her,
45 An’ cheek-for-chow, a chuffie Vintner cheek-by-jowl, fat faced
Colleaguing join, —
Pickin her pouch as bare as Winter pocket
Of a’ kind coin.
Is there, that bears the name o’ SCOT,
50 But feels his heart’s bluid rising hot, blood
To see his poor auld Mither’s pot old mother’s
Thus dung in staves, broken in pieces
An’ plunder’d o’ her hindmost groat, last coin
By gallows knaves?
55 Alas! I’m but a nameless wight,
Trode i’ the mire out o’ sight!
But could I like MONTGOMERIES fight,
Or gab like BOSWELL, talk
There’s some sark-necks I wad draw tight, shirt-necks, would
60 An’ tye some hose well. tie
God bless your Honors! can ye see’t,
The kind, auld, cantie Carlin greet, old, jolly, wife weep
An’ no get warmly to your feet,
An’ gar them hear it, make
65 An’ tell them wi’ a patriot-heat, Scottish passion
Ye winna bear it? will not
Some o’ you nicely ken the laws, know
To round the period an’ pause,
An’ with rhetoric clause on clause
70 To mak harangues;
Then echo thro’ Saint Stephen’s wa’s Parliament’s walls
Auld Scotland’s wrangs. old, wrongs
Dempster,1 a true blue Scot I’se warran; I’ll warrant
Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran;2 oath
The Laird o’ Graham;3
An’ ane, a chap that’s damn’d auldfarran, one, shrewd
Dundass4 his name:
Erskine,5 a spunkie Norland billie; spirited Northern young man
80 True Campbells, Frederick an’ Ilay;6
An’ Livistone, the bauld Sir Willie;7 bold
An’ mony ithers, many others
Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully8 old
Might own for brithers. brothers
85 Thee sodger Hugh, my watchman stented,9 soldier, assigned (M.P.)
If Bardies e’er are represented;
I ken if that your sword were wanted, know
Ye’d lend your hand;
But when there’s ought to say anent it, about
90 Ye’re at a stand.
Arouse my boys! exert your mettle,
To get auld Scotland back her kettle! old, whisky still
Or faith! I’ll wad my new pleugh-pettle, wager, plough scraper
Ye’ll see’t or lang, before long
95 She’ll teach you, wi’ a reekan whittle, smoking knife
Anither sang. another song
This while she’s been in crankous mood, fretful
Her lost Militia fir’d her bluid; blood
(Deil na they never mair do guid, not, more, good
100 Play’d her that pliskie!) trick
An’ now she’s like to rin red-wud run stark mad
About her Whisky.
An’ Lord! if ance they pit her till’t, once, put her to it
Her tartan petticoat she’ll kilt, tuck up
105 An’ durk an’ pistol at her belt, blade
She’ll tak the streets,
An’ rin her whittle to the hilt, run her knife, handle
I’ the first she meets!
For God-sake, Sirs! then speak her fair,
110 An’ straik her cannie wi’ the hair, stroke, carefully
An’
to the Muckle House repair, great Parliament
Wi’ instant speed,
An’ strive, wi’ a’ your Wit an’ Lear, knowledge
To get remead.
115 Yon ill-tongu’d tinkler, Charlie Fox,10 gypsy
May taunt you wi’ his jeers an’ mocks;
But gie him’t het, my hearty cocks! give him it hot
E’en cowe the cadie! subdue, rascal
An’ send him to his dicing box
120 An’ sportin lady.
Tell yon guid bluid of auld Boconnock’s,11 good blood, old
I’ll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks, mixed meal bannocks
An’ drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock’s12 old
Nine times a-week,
125 If he some scheme, like tea an’ winnocks, windows
Wad kindly seek. would
Could he some commutation broach,
I’ll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, oath, good broad
He needna fear their foul reproach need not
130 Nor erudition,
Yon mixtie-maxtie, queer hotch-potch, mixed up
The Coalition.
Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue; old, rough
She’s just a devil wi’ a rung; bludgeon
135 An’ if she promise auld or young old
To tak their part,
Tho’ by the neck she should be strung,
She’ll no desert.
And now, ye chosen FIVE AND FORTY,
140 May still your Mither’s heart support ye; mother’s
Then, tho’ a Minister grow dorty, haughty
An’ kick your place,
Ye’ll snap your fingers, poor an’ hearty,
Before his face.
145 God bless your Honors, a’ your days,
Wi’ sowps o’ kail and brats o’ claes, sups of broth, coarse cloth
In spite o’ a’ the thievish kaes, jackdaws