Part 2
But ye whom social pleasure charms, Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms, Who hold your being on the terms, “Each aid the others,” Come to my bowl, come to my arms, My friends, my brothers!
* * * * *
Drink ye to her that each loves best.
* * * * *
Fill me with the rosy wine, Call a toast, a toast divine, Give the poet’s darling flame, Lovely —— be the name, Then thou mayest freely boast Thou hast given a peerless toast.
* * * * *
Farewell the glen sae bushy, O! Farewell the plain sae rushy, O! To other lands I now must go, To sing my Highland lassie, O!
* * * * *
For a’ that and a’ that, It’s coming yet for a’ that— That man to man the warld o’er Shall brithers be for a’ that.
* * * * *
For me, I’m woman’s slave confessed— Without her, hopeless and unblessed.
* * * * *
For there’s nae luck about the house, There’s nae luck at a’; There’s little pleasure in the house When our gudeman’s awa’.
* * * * *
Go to your sculptur’d tombs, ye Great, In a’ the tinsel trash o’ state! But by thy honest turf I’ll wait, Thou Man of worth! And weep the ae best fellow’s fate E’er lay in earth.
* * * * *
Here’s a health to ane I lo’e dear, Here’s a health to ane I lo’e dear; Thou art as sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, And soft as their parting tear—Jessy!
* * * * *
Here’s a bottle and an honest friend! What wad ye wish for mair, man? Wha kens, before his life may end, What his share may be of care, man? Then catch the moments as they fly, And use them as ye ought, man:— Believe me, happiness is shy, And comes not aye when sought, man.
* * * * *
Here’s to him who winna’ beguile ye.
* * * * *
Here’s a health to the ladies at hame, Here’s a health to the ladies awa’, And wha winna pledge wi’ all their soul May they never be smiled on at a’.
Here’s health to the bright eyes at hame, Here’s health to the bright eyes awa’, Here’s health to the beauties of every clime, And may we be smiled on by a’.
* * * * *
Here’s to the friends we can trust When the storms of adversity blaw; May they live in our song and be nearest our hearts Nor depart like the year that’s awa’.
* * * * *
Here’s to the year that’s awa’, We’ll drink it, in strong and in sma’; And here’s to the bonnie young lassie in love While swift flies the year that’s awa’.
* * * * *
Here’s to them that loe’s us, or lends us a lift.
* * * * *
Here’s to woman—she requires no eulogy—she can speak for herself.
* * * * *
Here’s to you, as good as you are, And here’s to me, as bad as I am; But as good as you are and as bad as I am I’m as good as you are, as bad as I am.
* * * * *
Honest men and bonnie lassies.
* * * * *
I hae been blythe wi’ comrades dear; I hae been merry drinkin’; I hae been joyfu’ gath’ring gear; I hae been happy thinkin’; But a’ the pleasures e’er I saw, Tho’ three times doubled fairly, That happy night was worth them a’ Amang the rigs o’ barley.
* * * * *
It warms me, it charms me, To mention but her name, It heats me, it beats me, And sets me a’ on flame.
* * * * *
Jessie, the flower of Dumblane.
* * * * *
Mair friends and less need o’ them.
* * * * *
May the hand of charity wipe the tear from the eye of sorrow.
* * * * *
May the friends of our youth be the companions of our old age.
* * * * *
May the honest heart never feel distress.
* * * * *
May the hinges o’ friendship never rust or the wings o’ love lose a feather.
* * * * *
May ne’er waur be amang us.
* * * * *
May we a’ be canty and cosy And ilk hae a wife in his bosy.
* * * * *
Let’s drink our drap o’ barley bree, Though moon and stars should blink thegither, To each leal lad wi’ kilted knee, And bonnie lass amang the heather.
* * * * *
May never wicked fortune touzle him! May never wicked men bamboozle him! Until a pow as auld’s Methusalem He canty claw! Then to the blessed New Jerusalem, Fleet wing awa!
* * * * *
O! love! love! laddie. Love’s like a dizziness! It winna let a puir body Gang about his business.
* * * * *
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to min’? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days o’ lang syne?
Chorus
For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet For auld lang syne.
We twa hae run about the braes, And pu’d the gowans fine; But we’ve wander’d mony a weary foot Sin auld lang syne.
For auld, etc.
We twa hae paidl’t i’ the burn, From mornin’ sun till dine; But seas between us braid hae roar’d Sin auld lang syne.
For auld, etc.
And here’s a hand, my trust fiere, And gie’s a hand o’ thine; And we’ll tak a right guid willie-waught, For auld lang syne.
For auld, etc.
And surely ye’ll be your pint-stoup, And surely I’ll be thine; And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet For auld lang syne.
For auld, etc.
* * * * *
The de’il rock them in a creel that does na’ wish us a’ weel.
* * * * *
The Ingle neuk wi’ routh o’ bannocks and bairns.
* * * * *
The social friendly honest man, Whae’er he be, ’Tis he fulfils great Nature’s plan, And none but he.
* * * * *
The Highland lads and Lowland lassies.
* * * * *
The Lowland fare and the Highland lassies.
* * * * *
Then fill a bowl, and while we drink We’ll rivet closer friendship’s link, Till joy rin o’er and care deep sink, Beneath the whirling wave o’t.
* * * * *
Till Hymen brought his love-delighted hour, There dwelt no joy in Eden’s rosy bower.
* * * * *
To a’ Scots lassies.
* * * * *
To our next merry meeting.
* * * * *
Thumping luck and fat weans.
* * * * *
To see her is to love her, And love but her for ever; For Nature made her what she is. And ne’er made sic anither!
* * * * *
This is a good world to live in, To lend to spend or to give in, But to get or to borrow or keep what’s one’s own ’Tis the very worst world that ever was known.
* * * * *
To those who love us, second fill; But not to those whom we love: Lest we love those who love not us! A third—“to thee and me, Love!”
* * * * *
While highlandmen hate tolls and taxes; While muirlan’ herds like guid fat braxies; While terra firma, on her axis Diurnal turns, Count on a friend, in faith an’ practice, In Robert Burns.
* * * * *
While waters wimple to the sea; While day blinks in the lift sae hie; Till clay-cauld death shall blin’ my e’e, Ye shall be aye my dearie.
* * * * *
Whilst we together jovial sit Careless, and crowned with mirth and wit, We’ll think of all the friends we know And drink to all worth drinking to!
CONVIVIAL AND HUMOUROUS TOASTS AND SENTIMENTS
A man when he’s sober is deils ill to ken; Gude sooks than there’s nae kenning o’ him. But prime him wi’ nappie, than ye mae gae ben And learn what he is—for ’twill show him.
* * * * *
A club of good fellows like those that are here And a bottle like this I most heartily cheer.
* * * * *
A ram’s horn filled with usquebaugh.
* * * * *
Here’s to the chief whose heart is brave, That merrily lives in the mountain cave And bides by greenwood law, Who scorns the weather, Whose bed’s the heather, Fill high, fill high together.
* * * * *
And let the careless moments roll In social pleasures unconfin’d And confidence that spurns control Unlock the inmost springs of mind.
* * * * *
And now I have lived—I know not how long. And still I can join in a cup or a song.
* * * * *
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware That jaups in luggies; But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer, Gie her a Haggis!
* * * * *
Be’t whiskey gill, or penny wheep Or any stronger potion, It never fails, on drinking deep, To kittle up our notion By night or day.
* * * * *
Blythe, blythe, aroun’ the nappy, Let us join in social glee; While we’re here we’ll hae a drappy, Scotia’s sons hae aye been free.
* * * * *
Blythe may we a’ be, Ill may we never see.
* * * * *
Breeks and brochan (brose).
* * * * *
By the gaily circling glass We can tell how minutes pass. By the hollow cask we’re told How the waning night grows old.
* * * * *
Comrades, you may pass the rosy. With permission of the Chair I shall leave you for a little, for I wish to take the air.
* * * * *
Drink to-day, and drown all sorrow; You shall perhaps not do’t to-morrow.
* * * * *
Food fills the wame, an’ keeps us livin’; Tho’ life’s a gift no worth receivin’ When heavy dragged in pine and grievin’; But oil’d by thee, The wheels o’ life gae down-hill, screivin, Wi’ rattlin’ glee.
* * * * *
Fortune, if thou’lt but gie me still Hale breeks, a scone, an’ whiskey gill, An’ rowth o’ rhyme to rave at will, Tak a’ the rest, An’ deal’t about as thy blind skill Directs thee best.
* * * * *
Freedom and whiskey gang thegither! Take aff your dram!
* * * * *
Gae fill the three pint cup o’ ale, The maul maun be above the meal, We hope your ale is stark and stout For men to drink the auld year out.
* * * * *
Gie him strong drink, until he wink, That’s sinking in despair; An’ liquor guid to fire his bluid, That’s prest wi’ grief an’ care; There let him bouse, an’ deep carouse, Wi’ bumpers flowing o’er, Till he forgets his loves and debts, An’ minds his griefs no more.
* * * * *
Gude e’en to ye a’ an’ tak your nappy, A wully-waught’s a good night cappy.
* * * * *
Here’s to the place where a drap o’ guid drink’s to be gotten.
* * * * *
Here’s your fery good healths And tamm ta whiskey duty.
* * * * *
In Vino Veritas! which means A man’s a very ass in liquor. The thief that slowly steals our brains Makes nothing but the temper quicker.
* * * * *
Inspiring, bold John Barleycorn, What dangers thou canst make us scorn.
* * * * *
Lang may they bloom, as aye they’ve been The pride o’ lang syne. Then fill the bicker reaming fu’ Wi’ Scotland’s Highland wine, An’ drink to a’ whar’re leel an’ true, An’ days o’ lang syne.
* * * * *
Let other poets raise a fracas ’Bout vines, and wines, and druncken Bacchus, And crabbit names and stories wrack us, An’ grate our lug, I sing the juice Scotch barley can make us, In glass or jug.
* * * * *
Let Pride in Fortune’s chariots fly, Sae empty, vain, and vogie; The source of wit, the spring of joy, Lies in the social coggie. Then O revere the coggie, sirs! The poor man’s patron coggie! It warsels care, it fights life’s faughts And lifts him frae the boggie.
* * * * *
Lees me wi’ drink. It gives us mair than either school or college, It wakens wit, it kindles lear An’ primes us fou o’ knowledge.
* * * * *
May the pleasures of the evening bear the reflections of the morning.
* * * * *
May love and whiskey both Rejoice an honest fellow, May the unripe joys of life Love and whiskey mellow.
* * * * *
May ye never ken a fiddler’s drouth.
* * * * *
May we have preed an’ cheese like Pen Nevis, an’ whiskey like Loch Lomond and a pig dyke ’tween us an’ the Tevil.
* * * * *
May we never be wearing lug warmers when we are offered a drink of whiskey.
* * * * *
May we ne’er want a friend or a drappie to gie him.
* * * * *
Now fill your glasses ane an’ a’ And drink the toast I gie ye, O, “To merry chiels and lasses braw, And every joy be wi’ ye, O.” Fair fa’ the whiskey, O, Fair fa’ the whiskey, O, What wad a drouthy body do, If ’twere nae for the whiskey, O?
* * * * *
O gie me the times when the ploys were in vogue An’ the cake an’ the kebbuck gaed down wi’ the cogue.
* * * * *
O guid ale comes and guid ale goes, Guid ale gars me sell my hose, Sell my hose and pawn my shoon, Guid ale keeps my heart aboon.
* * * * *
O thou my muse! guid auld Scotch drink!
* * * * *
There’s nought so sweet in this poor life As knittin’ soul to soul; And what maist close may bind that knot? The glass and bowl! The glass and bowl, my boys, The glass and bowl; So let us call, for this is out, Anither bowl.
We never dabbled in the burn, Nor pull’d the gowan droll, But often has the sun’s return Surprised our bowl. Chorus—Our glass and bowl, etc.
And aft did we the merry catch And cheering ditty troll, And hooted mony a whiggish wretch About the bowl. Chorus—Our glass and bowl, etc.
And, therefore, hill betwixt may rise, And though ocean water roll, Yet we’ll ne’er forget the lads who met About the bowl. Chorus—Our glass and bowl, etc.
And when yer poet’s dead and gane, And laid beneath the moul, Let those who sung his memory, drink About the bowl. Chorus—Our glass and bowl, etc.
* * * * *
Our heads cool, our feet warm. And a glass of good liquor to do us no harm.
* * * * *
Peat whiskey hot Tempered with well boiled water, These make the long night shorter.
* * * * *
Scotch whiskey and Scotch cakes.
* * * * *
See the smoking bowl before us, Mark our jovial ragged ring; Round and round take up the chorus, And in raptures let us sing.
* * * * *
Some hae meat and canna’ eat, And some wad eat who want it; But we hae meat and we can eat, So let the Lord be thankit.
* * * * *
Strong ale was ablution, Small beer persecution, A dram was memento mori; But a full flowing bowl Was the saving his soul, And port was celestial glory.
* * * * *
The grace is said: it’s nae o’wer lang; The claret reams in bells. Quo, Deacon, “Let the toast round gang, Come, here’s our noble sels’, Weel met the day.”
* * * * *
The Highlandman’s bauld, the Highlandman’s free, His arm is strong and his heart is true: What gives the Highlandman courage and glee? What but the drops of his mountain dew.
* * * * *
The juice of the grape is given to him who will use it wisely,
As that which cheers the heart of men after toil,
Refreshes him in sickness, and comforts him in sorrow.
He who enjoyeth it may thank God for his wine cup as for his daily bread.
And he who abuses the gift of heaven is not a greater fool than thou in thine abstinence.
* * * * *
The sweets of Life—Mirth, Music, Love, and Wine.
* * * * *
Life’s a bumper filled by fate, Let us guests enjoy the treat, Nor, like silly mortals, pass Life as ’twere but half a glass; Let this scene with joy be crown’d, Let the glee and catch go round! All the sweets of life combine, Mirth, music, love and wine.
* * * * *
Then fill up a bumper, and make it o’erflow, And honours masonic prepare for to throw; May every true brother of the compass and square Have a big-bellied bottle when harass’d with care.
* * * * *
Then here’s to ilka kindly Scot: Wi’ mony good broths he boils his pot, But rare hotch potch beats a’ the lot, It smells so brawly. For there’s carrots intill’t and neaps intill’t, There’s peas and beans and beets intill’t, The hearty wholesome meats intill’t That stick the kite sae brawly.
* * * * *
Then let us toast John Barleycorn, Each man a glass in hand; And may his great posterity Ne’er fail in old Scotland!
* * * * *
Then sip the dew, and cheerful sing, And loud the bagpipes play, man, And gae the very welkin ring Wi’ blithe St. Andrew’s Day, man.
* * * * *
There’s death in the cup—sae beware! Nay, more—there is danger in touching; But wha can resist the fell snare? The man and his wine’s sae bewitching.
* * * * *
To sum up all, be merry, I advise; And as we’re merry, may we still be wise.
* * * * *
To the three things necessary to the happiness of a Scotchman—First, the sneeshin’ (snuff), second, the whiskey, third, more whiskey.
* * * * *
To whiskey—o’er a’ the ills o’ life victorious.
* * * * *
We arena fou, we’re nae that fou, But just a drappie in our ee; The cock may craw, the day may daw, And aye we’ll taste the barley bree.
* * * * *
We hae a’ kinds o’ whisky, fre Glenlivet sae clear, That ne’er gaes a headache—to the five bawbee gear; We hae Gin, Rum, Shrub, and ither neck-rackets For them whan the clear stuff their brain sets in rackets We hae fine Yill frae Peebles, an’ Porter frae Lonnon— Ginger beer frae the toon, an’ Sma’ brisk an’ foaming; We hae Teas, Bread an’ Cheese, alias Welsh Rabbits; Ham, Eggs an’ Red Herrings for wairsh tasted gabbets. If at ony time aught else should be wanted We’ll raither send for ’t than see freen’s disappointed.
* * * * *
We meet to be merry, then let us part wise Nor suffer the bottle to blind reason’s eyes.
* * * * *
Wi’ tippeny, we fear nae evil; Wi’ usquebae, we’ll face the devil!
* * * * *
Now for the Doch an’ Doris.
SOME AFTER DINNER STORIES
The source o’ joy below, The antidote to woe, And the only proper go, Is drinking drams.
So sang George Outram. The barley bree is peculiarly national, and is responsible for an extraordinary amount of wit and humour. Of course there are the tragic and the pathetic sides. But, as is related elsewhere, “A kirk withoot a hell’s just no worth a d—— docken.” If there had been less harm there would have been less fun in whisky. When could lemonade make a man “Glorious, o’er a’ the ills o’ life victorious!” What a pathetic little scene is that of Hawkie, the well-known Glasgow “character,” as he himself describes it. “Wearied out, I lay down at the roadside to rest me, an’ a’ the laddies were saying as they passed, ‘Hawkie’s drunk,’ an’ vext was I that it wasna true.”
* * * * *
“Was ye ever drunk, sir,” inquired a Perthshire blacksmith of the Free Church minister who was remonstrating with him for excessive indulgence. “No, Donald,” said the minister, “I am glad to say I never was.” “I thocht as muckle,” said the smith; “for man, if ye was ance richt drunk, ye wad never like to be sober a’ your days again.”
* * * * *
A Perthshire village tradesman got on the “batter” and did not return home until after the lapse of several days. His wife met him in the door with the question, “Whaur hae ye been a’ this time?” “Perth,” was the sententious reply. “Perth!” echoed the wife. “An’ what was ye doin’ sae lang in Perth? Nae mortal man could be doin’ gude stayin’ in Perth for three hale days on end.” “Awa! an’ no haiver, woman,” was the dry reply, “plenty o’ fouk stay a’ their days in Perth an’ do brawly.”
* * * * *
“There’s death in the cup!” exclaimed a violent teetotal lecturer as he rushed up to where an old farmer was carefully toning his dram with water from a huge decanter. More of the pura had flowed forth than was intended, and eyeing his glass critically, “Hech, an’ I think ye’re richt, freend,” was the response, “for I’ve droon’d the miller.”
* * * * *
Here is a peculiar form of “drunk.” The grandfather of the author of “Oor Ain Folk” sent his man Donald to dispose of a skep of bees at Edzell market. The seductions of the fair, etc., were too much for Donald, who arrived home nearly “blin’ fou” and could only give a long, rambling rigmarole of the most imaginative character about the lost siller. Seeing clearly, however, what had happened, the old minister in great irritation cut him short with the following outburst of broadest vernacular: “Hoots! ye leein’ sumph, ye’ve drucken the haill hypothec; I can hear the vera bees bizzen i’ yer wame!”
* * * * *
Johnnie Baxter, of Montrose, was ordered by the doctor to give his wife some whisky. Shortly afterwards the doctor called again, and, being rather dubious of Johnnie’s moral rectitude when whisky was in question, asked him point blank, “Weel, Johnnie, did ye get yer wife the stimulant I ordered?”, “Ou ay,” said Johnnie with a hiccough, “I got the steemulant.” “Ay, but did ye administer it?” Then Johnnie, with a fine outburst of drunken candour, said: “Weel, as fac’s deith, doctor, I got the whusky for her, but ye see ye tell’t me she couldna last till mornin’, and that naethin’ would dae her ony guid, so I jist thocht it’s a peety tae waste guid whusky, and so, doctor” (this with a sigh), “I jist took the drappie masel’;” but he hastened to add, seeing a look of strong disgust on the doctor’s face, “I gied her the hooch o’t.”
* * * * *