XXIII.

THE CURE FOR ALL CARE.

Tune--"_Prepare, my dear brethren, to the tavern_ _let's fly._"

[Tarbolton Lodge, of which the poet was a member, was noted for its socialities. Masonic lyrics are all of a dark and mystic order; and those of Burns are scarcely an exception.]

No churchman am I for to rail and to write, No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight, No sly man of business, contriving to snare-- For a big-bellied bottle's the whole of my care.

The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow; I scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so low; But a club of good fellows, like those that are here, And a bottle like this, are my glory and care.

Here passes the squire on his brother--his horse; There centum per centum, the cit with his purse; But see you The Crown, how it waves in the air! There a big-bellied bottle still eases my care.

The wife of my bosom, alas! she did die; For sweet consolation to church I did fly; I found that old Solomon proved it fair, That a big-bellied bottle's a cure for all care.

I once was persuaded a venture to make; A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck;-- But the pursy old landlord just waddled up stairs, With a glorious bottle that ended my cares.