Het tweede gedicht in de 'Kilmarnock Volume', het eerste gedichtenboek van Robert Burns, geschreven rond 1785 lijkt de whisky te verheerlijken. Het is pas op het einde dat we inzien dat het helemaal niet over whisky gaat, maar over zijn bezorgdheid voor de armoede en de mogelijkheid van geluk voor de armen, een topic dat Burns nauw aan het hart lag.
Scotch Drink
Give him strong drink until he wink,
That is sinking in despair;
And liquor good to fire his blood,
That is pressed with grief and care:
There let him drink deeply, and deep carouse,
With bumpers flowing over,
Till he forgets his loves or debts,
And minds his grieves no more.
Solomon's Proverbs, xxxi. 6, 7.
Let other poets raise a fracas
About vines, and wines, and drunken Bacchus,
And ill natured names and stories torment us,
And vex our ear:
I sing the juice Scotch barley can make us,
In glass or jug.
O you, my Muse! good old Scotch drink!
Whether through winding worms you frisk,
Or, richly brown, cream over the brink,
In glorious foam,
Inspire me, till I lisp and wink,
To sing your name!
Let husky wheat the hollows adorn,
And oats set up their bearded horn,
And peas and beans, at evening or morning,
Perfume the plain:
Blessings on you, John Barleycorn (Barley),
You king of grain!
On you often Scotland chews her cud,
In supple scones, the pick of food!
Or tumbling in the boiling flood (soup)
With kale (greens) and beef;
But when you pours your strong heart's blood,
There you shine chief.
Food fills the belly, and keeps us living;
Although life is a gift not worth receiving,
When heavy dragged with pine and grieving;
But oiled by you,
The wheels of life go down hill, careering,
With rattling glee.
You clears the head of muddled Learning,
You cheers the heart of drooping Care;
You strings the nerves of Labour sore,
At its weary toil;
You even brightens dark Despair
With gloomy smile.
Often, dressed in massif silver dress,
With gentles you erects your head;
Yet, humbly kind in time of need,
The poor man's wine:
His little drop porridge, or his bread,
You make good food.
You are the life of public haunts:
Without you, what were our fairs and merry makings?
Even godly meetings of the saints,
By you inspired,
When, gaping, they besiege the tents,
Are doubly fired.
That merry night we get the corn in (harvest the corn),
O sweetly, then, you creams the spoon in!
Or smoking on a New Year morning
In dish or beaker,
And just a small drop spiritual burn in,
And tasty sugar!
When Vulcan gives his bellows breath,
And ploughmen gather with their wealth,
O rare! to see you fizz an froth
In the two-eared cup!
Then Burnewin (the blacksmith) comes on like death
At every stroke.
No mercy, then, for iron or steel:
The brawny, bony, ploughman fellow,
Brings hard overhip, with sturdy wheel,
The strong forehammer,
Till block and anvil ring and reel,
With noisy clamour.
When squalling babies see the light,
You make the gossips babble cheerfully;
How fumbling dolts their darlings slight;
Woe befall the name!
No midwife gets a social night,
Or coin from them.
When neighbours anger at a law case,
And just as wild as wild can be,
How easy can the barley brew
Cement the quarrel!
It is always the cheapest lawyer's fee,
To taste the barrel.
Alas! that ever my Muse has reason,
To charge her countrymen with treason!
But many daily wet their throat
With liquors nice,
And hardly, in a winter season,
Ever asks her price.
Woe befall that brandy, burning trash!
Fierce source of many a pain and illness!
Robs many a poor, stupid, drunken oaf,
Of half his days;
And sends, beside, old Scotland's cash
To her worst foes.
You Scots, who wish old Scotland well!
You chief, to you my tale I tell,
Poor, penniless devils like myself!
It becomes you ill,
With bitter, scarce wines to meddle,
Or foreign gill.
May small stones round his bladder wrench,
And gouts torment him, inch by inch,
Who twists his face with a growl
Of sour disdain,
Out over a glass of whisky punch
With honest men!
O Whisky! soul of plays and pranks!
Accept a Bards grateful thanks!
When wanting thee, what tuneless creakings
Are my poor verses!
You come - they rattle in their ranks
At other's arses!
You Ferintosh! O sadly lost!
Scotland's lament from coast to coast!
Now colic grips, and barking cough
May kill us all;
For loyal Forbes' chartered boast
Is taken away!
Those cursed horse leeches of the Excise,
Who make the whisky stills their prize!
Hold up your hand, Devil! once, twice, three times!
There, seize the spies!
And bake them up in brimstone pies
For poor damned drinkers.
Fortune! if you will but give me still
Whole trousers, a scone, and whisky gill,
And store of rhyme to rave at will,
Take all the rest,
And deal it about as your blind skill
Directs you best.