Page:Bon-Accord Sangster.pdf/6

 Here beggars blind, to raise the wind,

Their black-mou'd cutty blaw, man;

For what you chuck, they wus you luck,

But never miss a draw, man;

There royal Stars, wi' dear cigars,

In clouds consume their days, man;

When Dukes hae luck to kill a buck,

They sit astride an' blaze, man!

Thus gryte an' sma', in cot an' ha',

Inhale this foreign fume, man;

An' sons o' toil in smoking pile,

Baith bit an' brat consume, man;

Their wives gang bare, their bairns want lare,

An' reek aye maks a sour house;

When limb and lith hae tint their pith,

They shochel to the Poorhouse.

Then, Lasses gay, attend my lay,

That's lilted for your profit;

An' quickly quench this poison's stench

That's only fit for Tophet;

Renounce the race, that fumes your face,

Tho' some may ca' you saucy;-

Nane but a gype, for fousome pipe,

Would lose a thrifty lassie!

Fill the Bowl and foam the Bicker,

While Mackenzie's eyelids wink;

Drink makes languid hearts beat quicker,

Empty heads sublimely think.

Drink, all slavish toil forgetting,

Drink can make clown a king;

Drink till eyes in joy are setting,

Drink makes sorrow take the wing!