Let Topers sing

Let topers sing in praise of wine,

Their midnicht balls, their mirth and glee;

Auld Scotland's sons may fidge fu' fain

While they ha'e routh o' barley-bree.

The workman, wha has toiled a' day,

Sits down at nicht frae labour free;

See, care is fled! his smile how gay,

When owre a stoup o' barley-bree.

Gif onie man, in barlikhood,

Should wi' his neebor disagree,

Let them baith gang in social mood,

And settle't owre the barley bree:

For barley drink, wad they but think,

Is cheaper than a lawyer's fee;—

Though sairly vex'd, aye mind the text—

Its best to "tak' a pint and gree."

Ken ye the witty Willie Clark?

A learned man, I trow, is he;

And nocht to him is deep or dark,

When seated by the barley-bree.

He tells a tale—he sings a sang—

While fast the merry moments flee;

A winter nicht, though ne'er sae lang,

Seems short when "Willie's wig's a-jee!"

French brandy is but trash—shame fa't!

Jamaica rum I downa pree;

Gi'e me the pith o' Scottish maut,

Aboon them baith it bears the gree.

When I've a bawbee in my pouch,

I aften birl it frank and free;

To care, the carline, I ne'er crouch—

The life o' man is barley bree!