Tune, Steer her up, and had her gawn.
O Steer her up, and had her gawn,
Her mither’s at the mill, jo;
But gin she winna tak a man,
E’en let her tak her will, jo.
Pray thee, lad, leave silly thinking,
Cast thy cares of love away;
Let’s our sorrows drown in drinking,
‘Tis daffin langer to delay.
See that shining glass of claret,
How invitingly it looks;
Take it aff, and let’s have mair o’t,
Pox on fighting, trade and books.
Let’s have pleasure while we’re able,
Bring us in the meikle bowl,
Plac’t on the middle of the table.
And let wind and weather gowl.
Call the drawer, let him fill it
Fou, as ever it can hold:
O tak tent ye dinna spill it,
‘Tis mair precious far than gold.
By you’’e drunk a dozen bumpers,
Bacchus will begin to prove,
Spite of Venus and her Mumpers,
Drinking better is than love.