Then, O revere the cogie, sirs,
Our brave forefathers' cogie;
It rous'd them up to doughty deeds,
O'er which we'll lang be vogie.
Then here's may Scotland ne'er fa' down,
A cringing coward dogie,
But bauldly stand, and bang the loon,
Wha'd reave her of her cogie.
Then, O protect the cogie, sirs,
Our good auld mither's cogie;
Nor let her luggie e'er be drain'd
By ony foreign rogie.
Let Topers sing.
[Written by Captain Charles Gray, of the Royal Marines. Tune, "Willie brew'd a peck o' maut."]
Let topers sing in praise of wine,
Their midnicht balls, their mirth and glee;
Auld Scotland's sons may fidge fu' fain
While they ha'e routh o' barley-bree.
The workman, wha has toiled a' day,
Sits down at nicht frae labour free;
See, care is fled! his smile how gay,
When owre a stoup o' barley-bree.
Gif onie man, in barlikhood,
Should wi' his neebor disagree,
Let them baith gang in social mood,
And settle't owre the barley bree:
For barley drink, wad they but think,
Is cheaper than a lawyer's fee;—
Though sairly vex'd, aye mind the text—
Its best to "tak' a pint and gree."
Ken ye the witty Willie Clark?
A learned man, I trow, is he;
And nocht to him is deep or dark,
When seated by the barley-bree.
He tells a tale—he sings a sang—
While fast the merry moments flee;
A winter nicht, though ne'er sae lang,
Seems short when "Willie's wig's a-jee!"
French brandy is but trash—shame fa't!
Jamaica rum I downa pree;
Gi'e me the pith o' Scottish maut,
Aboon them baith it bears the gree.
When I've a bawbee in my pouch,
I aften birl it frank and free;
To care, the carline, I ne'er crouch—
The life o' man is barley bree!
Life aye has been.
[Tune, "Cauld kail in Aberdeen."]
Life aye has been a weary roun'
Whare expectation's bluntet,
Whare hope gets mony a crackit crown,
An' patience, sairly duntet,
Alang the road rins hirplin' down
Beside neglectit merit,
Whase heart gi'es mony a weary stoun',
And broken is his spirit.
But de'il me care though fate whiles glooms,
Gae, lassie, heat the water:
Wi' fate we'll never fash our thumbs,
But gar the gill-stoup clatter.
Punch is a sea whare care ne'er sooms,
But pleasure rides it rarely,
We'll fill again whan this ane tooms,
Then let us set till't fairly.
Highland Whisky.
[Duncan Campbell.]
Ye social sons of Caledon,
Wha like to rant and roar, sirs,
Wha like to drink and laugh and sing,
And join a pot encore, sirs,
Attentive listen to my lay,
'Twill make ye blythe and frisky
WTien I relate, without delay,
The praise of Highland whisky.
Aboon a' drink it bears the cree,
It's a drink that never fails man,
Auld fools may drink their trash of tea,
And ither folks their ales, man;
To a Scotchman gi'e him barley bree,
If you would make him frisky,
And then he'll swear nocht will him fear,
For sic's the power of whisky.
