Classic Poem

LANDLADY, BRANDY, AND WHISKY .

O N auld worm-eaten skelf, in cellar dunk,
Whare hearty benders synd their drouthy trunk,
Twa chappin bottles, pang'd wi' liquor fu',
Brandy the tane, the tither Whisky blue,
Grew canker'd; for the twa were het within,
An' het-skin'd fock to flyting soon begin;
The Frenchman fizz'd, and first wad fit the field,
While paughty Scotsman scorn'd to beenge or yield.
Brandy . Black be your fa! ye cottar loun mislear'd,
Blawn by the Porters, Chairman, City-Guard;
Hae ye na breeding, that you cock your nose
Against my sweetly gusted cordial dose,
Ive' been near pauky courts, and aften there
Hae ca'd hystericks frae the dowy fair;
And courtiers aft gaed greening for my smack,
To gar them bauldly glour, and gashly crack.
The priest, to bang mishanters black and cares,
Has sought me in his closet for his prayers.
What tig then takes the fates, that they can thole
Thrawart to fix me i' this weary hole,
Sair fash'd wi' din, wi' darkness, and wi' stinks,
Whare cheery day-light thro' the mirk ne'er blinks.
Whisky . But ye maun be content, and maunna rue,
Tho' erst ye've bizz'd in bonny madam's mou,
Wi' thoughts like thae your heart may sairly dunt,
The warld's now change, its nae like use and wont;
For here, wae's me! there's nouther lord nor laird
Come to get heartscad frae their stamack skair'd;
Nae mair your courtier louns will shaw their face,
For they glour eiry at a friend's disgrace;
But heeze your heart up — Whan at court you hear
The patriot's thrapple wat wi' reaming beer;
Whan chairman, weary wi' his daily gain,
Can synd his whistle wi' the clear champaign;
Be hopefu', for the time will soon row round.
Whan you'll nae langer dwall beneath the ground.
Brandy . Wanwordy gowk! did I sae aften shine
Wi' gowden glister thro' the chrystal fine,
To thole your taunts, that seenil hae been seen
Awa frae luggie, quegh, or truncher treem;
Gif honour wad but lat, a challenge shou'd
Twine ye o' Highland tongue and Highland blude;
Wi' cairds like thee I scorn to file my thumb,
For gentle spirits gentle breeding doom.
Whisky . Truly I think it right you get your alms,
Your high heart humbled amang common drams:
Braw days for you, whan fools, newfangle fain,
Like ither countries better than their ain;
For there ye never saw sic chancy days,
Sic balls, assemblies, operas, or plays;
Hame-o'er langsyne you hae been blythe to pack
Your a' upon a sarkless soldier's back;
For you thir lads, as weel-lear'd trav'llers tell,
Had sell'd their sarks, gin sarks they'd had to sell.
But worth gets poortith an' black burning shame,
To daunt and drivel out a life at hame.
Alake! the by-word's owr weel kent throughout;
" Prophets at hame are held in nae repute; "
Sae fair'st wi' me, tho' I can heat the skin,
And set the saul upo' a mirry pin,
Yet I am hameil, there's the sour mischance!
I'm na frae Turkey, Italy, or France;
For now our gentles gabs are grown sae nice,
At thee they toot, an' never spear my price:
Witness — for thee they height their tenants rent,
And fill their lands wi' poortith, discontent;
Gar them o'er seas for cheaper mailins hunt,
An' leave their ain as bare's the Cairn-o'-mount.
Bran. Tho' lairds tak toothfu's o' my wamring sap,
This dwines not tenants gear, nor cows their crap;
For love to you there's mony a tenant gaes
Bare-ars'd and barefoot o'er the Highland braes:
For you nae mair the thrifty gudewife sees
Her lasses kirn, or birze the dainty cheese;
Crummie nae mair for Jenny's hand will crune,
Wi' milkness dreeping frae her teats adown:
For you owr ear the ox his fate partakes,
And fa's a victim to the bluidy aix.
Whisky . Wha is't that gars the greedy banker prieve
The maiden's tocher, but the maiden's leave:
By you when spulzied o' her charming pose,
She tholes in turn the taunt o' cauldrife joes;
Wi' skelps like this fock sit but seenil down
To wether-gammon or howtowdy brown;
Sair dung wi' dule, and fley'd for coming debt,
They gar their mou'-bits wi' their incomes met,
Content enough gif they hae wherewithal
Scrimply to tack their body and their saul.
Brandy . Frae some poor poet, o'er as poor a pot,
Ye've lear'd to crack sae crouse, ye haveril Scot,
Or burgher politician, that embrues
His tongue in thee, and reads the claiking news;
But waes heart for you! that for ay maun dwell
In poet's garret, or in chairman's cell,
While I shall yet on bein-clad tables stand,
Bouden wi' a' the daintiths o' the land.
Whisky . Troth I hae been ere now the poet's flame,
And heez'd his sangs to mony blythsome theme,
Wha was't gar'd A LLIE 's chaunter chirm fu' clear,
Life to the saul, and music to the ear?
Nae stream but kens, and can repeat the lay
To shepherds streekit on the simmer-brae,
Wha to their whistle wi' the lav'rock bang,
To wauken flocks the rural fields amang.
Bran. But here's the browster-wife, and she can tell
Wha's win the day, and wha shou'd wear the bell;
Hae done your din, an' let her judgement join
In final verdict 'twixt your plea and mine.
Landlady . In days o' yore I cou'd my living prize,
Nor fash'd wi' dolefu' gaugers or excise;
But now-a-days we're blyth to lear the thrift
Our heads 'boon licence and excise to lift;
Inlakes o' Brandy we can soon supply
By Whisky tinctur'd wi' the saffron's dye.
Will you your breeding threep, ye mongrel loun!
Frae hame-bred liquor dy'd to colour brown?
So flunky braw, whan drest in maister's claise,
Struts to Auld Reikie's cross on sunny days,
Till some auld comrade, ablins out o' place,
Near the vain up-start shaws his meagre face;
Bumbaz'd he loups frae sight, and jooks his ken,
Fley'd to be seen amang the tassel'd train.