“Vates quid orat de patera novum
Fundens liquorem.” – CAR. I., 31.
NOO, by my croon, the sun sends doun
Uncommon drouthy weather,
But here’s an inn – if it were sin
We’ll spill a dram thegither!
An’ while we sit an’ rest oor fit,
Surveyin’ man’s dominion,
We’ll tak’ a glance at things that chance,
An’ freely pass opinion.
Yon stookit grain that dots the plain –
We canna ca’ a lead o’t;
The herd that strays on yonder braes –
We canna claim a head o’t.
It’s no’ in beeves an’ baundit sheaves
That we can coont oor wealth, Tam;
Yet, nane the less, there’s happiness
To puir folk wi’ their health, Tam.
There needs but sma’ estate to ca
Awa’ the wants that fear folk,
While mony wares bring mony cares
That never trouble puir folk,
An’ for the yield o’ hill or field –
It’s little that we’re spar’d o’t,
But to the ee it’s juist as free
To hiz as him that’s laird o’t.
Gie knaves their wine – this drink be mine,
Auld Scotland’s native brewin’!
O’ this bereft, there’s watter left,
Wi’ that we’ll e’en be doin’!
Gie fules their braws – they’ve aiblins cause
To be sae finely wrappit;
The man that’s in a healthy skin
He’s brawly if he’s happit.
Gie him a horse wha wants the force
To drive his ain shanks’ naigie;
What can he ken o’ wud or glen,
Or mountain wild an’ craigie?
Wad Fortun’ grant me what I want
I’d pray for health o’ body,
A healthy mind to sang inclin’d,
An’ nae distaste for toddy!