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Thou art the life of public haunts;
But thee, what were our fairs and rants?
Ev'n godly meetings o' the saints,
By thee inspir'd,
When gaping they be rege 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's mornin
In cog or bicker,
And just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in,
And gusty sucker.
When Vulcan gies his bellows breath,
And ploughmen gather wi' their graith,
O rare! to see thee fizz and freath
I' the luggit caup!
Then Burnewin comes on like death
At ev'ry chaup.
Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel;
The brawnie, banie, ploughman chiel,
rings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel,
The strong forehammer,
Till black and studie ring and reel,
Wi' dinsome clamour,
When skirlin weanies see the light,
Thou make the gossips clatter bright,
How fumblin cuffs their dearies slight,
Waeworth the name!
Nae bowdie gets a social night,
Or place frae them
