Page:The poetical works of Robert Burns.djvu/57

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THE POEMS OF BURNS.
13
POSTSCRIPT.
Let half-starv'd slaves, in warmer skiesSee future wines, rich-clust'ring, rise;Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies,But blyth an' frisky,She eyes her free-born, martial boys,Tak aff their Whisky.
What tho' their Phœbus kinder warms,While fragrance blooms an' beauty charms!When wretches range, in famish'd swarms,The scented groves,Or hounded forth, dishonour armsIn hungry droves.
Their gun's a burden on their shouther;They downa bide the stink o' powther;Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring switherTo stan' or rin,Till skelp—a shot—they're aff, a' throwther,To save their skin.
But bring a Scotshman frae his hill,Clap in his cheek a Highland gill,Say, such is royal George's will,An' there's the foe,He has nae thought but how to killTwa at a blow.
Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him:Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him;Wi' bluidy han' a welcome gies him;An' when he fa's,His latest draught o' breathin lea'es himIn faint huzzas.
Sages their solemn een may steek,An' raise a philosophic reek,An' physically causes seek,In clime an' season;But tell me Whisky's name in Greek,I'll tell the reason.
Scotland, my auld, respected Mither!Tho' whyles ye moistify your leather,Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather,Ye tine your dam;Freedom and Whisky 'gang thegither!Tak aff your dram!
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