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!