Page:The Book of Scottish Song.djvu/257

Rh 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.

[ by Captain, of the Royal Marines. Tune, "Willie brew'd a peck o' maut."]

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!

[, "Cauld kail in Aberdeen."]

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.

[.]

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.