7
An' wae's me for his kail-pat,
His kail-pat, his kail-pat,
The lythe side anee had blobs o' fat,
There's naething now but bree.
He's out o' wark, he's out o' claes;
The cauld begins his banes to craze;
His credit's deen in ilka place,
Through love o' barleybree.
An' wae's me for his bare house,
His bare house, his bare house,
There's nae a mealock for a mouse
In's kist or almorie.
The table, chairs, and steels hae fled;
The claes hae slippit frae the bed;
His raggit weans maun beg their bread
Frae cauldrife charitie!
An' wae's me for his life o' sin,
His life o' sin, his life o' sin,
The drunkard's laugh and swearer's din
Come hame wi' barleybree.
He wales nae portion frae the Book;
Nae psalm is sung frae ouk to ouk;
A bendit knee, an upward look,
His bairnies never see.
Then leave the dubs to deuks and swine,
An' tak the pledge an' boldly sign,
That peace and plenty may combine
To bless your wife and weans.
Then we sall sing, "In our toun,
In our toun, in our toun,
There's nae a man in our toun
Wha lo'es the barleybree!"
