Читать книгу The Canongate Burns - Robert Burns - Страница 13

First printed in the Kilmarnock edition, 1786.

Gie him strong drink until he wink,

That’s sinking in despair;

An’ liquor guid to fire his bluid,

That’s prest wi’ grief an’ care:

There let him bowse, and deep carouse,

Wi’ bumpers flowing o’er,

Till he forgets his loves or debts,

An’ minds his griefs no more.

Solomon’s Proverbs, xxxi. 6, 7. I.

A paraphrase from Hugh Blair’s The Grave, p. 8.

Let other Poets raise a frácas

‘Bout vines, an’ wines, an’ drucken Bacchus, drunken

An’ crabbed names an’ stories wrack us, torment

An’ grate our lug: vex, ears

5 I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us, drink, barley

In glass or jug.

O thou, my MUSE! guid auld SCOTCH DRINK! good old

Whether thro’ wimplin worms thou jink, winding, frisk

Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink, froth over

10 In glorious faem, foam

Inspire me, till I lisp an’ wink,

To sing thy name!

Let husky Wheat the haughs adorn, hollows

An’ Aits set up their awnie horn, oats, bearded

15 An’ Pease an’ Beans, at een or morn,

Perfume the plain:

Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, blessing on thee

Thou king o’ grain!

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, often, chews, cud

20 In souple scones, the wale o’ food! soft, pick

Or tumbling in the boiling flood

Wi’ kail an’ beef; greens

But when thou pours thy strong heart’s blood,

There thou shines chief.

25 Food fills the wame, an’ keeps us livin; belly

Tho’ life’s a gift no worth receivin,

When heavy-dragg’d wi’ pine an’ grievin;

But oil’d by thee,

The wheels o’ life gae down-hill, scrievin, go, careering

30 Wi’ rattlin glee. noisy joy

Thou clears the head o’ doited Lear, muddled knowledge

Thou cheers the heart o’ drooping Care;

Thou strings the nerves o’ Labor-sair, sore

At’s weary toil;

35 Thou ev’n brightens dark Despair

Wi’ gloomy smile.

Aft, clad in massy, siller weed, often clothed

Wi’ Gentles thou erects thy head;

Yet, humbly kind, in time o’ need,

40 The poorman’s wine:

His wee drap parritch, or his bread, drop, porridge

Thou kitchens fine.

Thou art the life o’ public haunts;

But thee, what were our fairs and rants? without, merry-makings

45 Ev’n goodly meetings o’ the saunts, saints

By thee inspir’d,

When, gaping, they besiege the tents,

Are doubly fir’d.

That merry night we get the corn in,

50 O sweetly, then, thou reams the horn in!

Or reekin on a New-Year-mornin steaming

In cog or bicker, bowl, jug

An’ just a wee drap sp’ritual burn in, small drop

An’ gusty sucker! tasty sugar

55 When Vulcan gies his bellys breath, gives, bellows

An’ Ploughmen gather wi’ their graith, gear

O rare! to see thee fizz an’ fraeth bubble and froth

I’ the lugget caup! two-handled jug

Then Burnewin comes on like Death blacksmith

60 At ev’ry chap. stroke

Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel: no, iron

The brawnie, bainie, Ploughman-chiel, sturdy, boney, fellow

Brings hard owrehip, wi’ sturdy wheel, over hip

The strong forehammer,

65 Till block an’ studdie ring an’ reel, anvil

Wi’ dinsome clamour.

When skirlin weanies see the light, squalling infants

Thou maks the gossips clatter bright. makes, chatter, cheerfully

How fumbling coofs their dearies slight; fools

Wae worth the name! woe betide

Nae Howdie gets a social night, no midwife

Or plack frae them. coin

When neebors anger at a plea, neighbours

An’ just as wud as wud can be, mad/wild

75 How easy can the barley-bree -brew

Cement the quarrel!

It’s ay the cheapest Lawyer’s fee,

To taste the barrel.

Alake! that e’er my Muse has reason,

80 To wyte her countrymen wi’ treason! blame/charge

But mony daily weet their weason many, wet their throat

Wi’ liquors nice,

An’ hardly, in a winter season,

E’er spier her price. ask

85 Wae worth that Brandy, burnin trash! woe to

Fell source o’ monie a pain an’ brash! sickness

Twins mony a poor, doylt, drucken hash, (deprives many,

O’ half his days; weary drunken fellow)

An’ sends, beside, auld Scotland’s cash old

To her warst faes. worst foes

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well, who, old

Ye chief, to you my tale I tell,

Poor, plackless devils like mysel, penniless

It sets you ill,

95 Wi’ bitter, dearthfu’ wines to mell, meddle

Or foreign gill.

May Gravels round his blather wrench, stones, bladder

An’ Gouts torment him, inch by inch,

Wha twists his gruntle wi’ a glunch who, mouth, grumble

100 O’ sour disdain,

Out owre a glass o’ Whisky-punch over

Wi’ honest men!

O Whisky! soul o’ plays an’ pranks!

Accept a Bardie’s gratefu’ thanks!

105 When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks

Are my poor Verses!

Thou comes — they rattle i’ their ranks

At ither’s arses!

Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost!

110 Scotland lament frae coast to coast! from

Now colic-grips, an’ barkin hoast coughing hoarse

May kill us a’;

For loyal Forbes’ Chartered boast

Is taen awa! taken away

115 Thae curst horse-leeches o’ th’ Excise, those

Wha mak the Whisky stills their prize! who make

Haud up thy han’, Deil! ance, twice, thrice! hold, hand, once

There, seize the blinkers! rascals/spies

An’ bake them up in brunstane pies brimstone

120 For poor damn’d Drinkers.

Fortune! if thou’ll but gie me still give

Hale breeks, a scone, an’ Whisky gill, whole breeches

An’ rowth o’ rhyme to rave at will, abundance/store

Tak a’ the rest,

125 An’ deal’t about as thy blind skill

Directs thee best.

Though not quite in the manner of his contemporary, William Blake, Burns found The Bible a constant source of inspiration and allusion. This vernacularisation of Proverbs with which he introduces the poem is characteristic of his delight in the often excessively erotic, violent and, in this case, alcoholic tales he found in The Old Testament. Such use of The Bible was not the least of his anti-clerical weapons. Nor was it the least of his offences against Hugh Blair and the pietistic critical sensibilities of genteel Edinburgh.

A copy of Scotch Drink was sent to Robert Muir in March, 1786, having been apparently written sometime in the preceding winter. This celebratory ‘hymn’ to the virtues of the national drink again owes its genesis and tone to the bibulous gaiety which pulses through Robert Fergusson’s poetry. In particular it is related to Fergusson’s Caller Water and A Drink Eclogue with its disputation between Brandy and Whisky. As in Fergusson’s poems, whisky is ever the vital, democratising, somewhat chauvinistic heart’s blood of the nation, energising and socialising everybody with whom it comes into contact. The sad exception is the impotent, cuckolded husband of ll. 67–72.

In ll. 102–8 Burns also associates whisky with the power to energise his own poetic creativity so that the quality of his verses catches up with those of his poetic competitors. We cannot know to what degree alcohol was a creative stimulant for Burns, though certainly some of his most extraordinary letters are self-confessedly written with well-plied glass in hand. See, for example, Letter 506 to Alexander Cunningham.

The reference in l. 109 to Ferintosh as Kinsley tells us, is that this Cromarty Firth whisky had been exempted from duty after 1695 in reparation for damage to the estates of Forbes of Culloden, the owner of the distillery, by the Jacobites in 1689. Forbes’ loss of this privilege in 1785 drove the price of whisky up.

The penultimate stanza’s consignment of the Excise to the fires of hell for their still-breaking activities must have caused Burns subsequent guilty grief. The Excise was the most hated and efficient arm of a state that had nothing to do with welfare and everything to do with intrusive, punitive taxation. Had he known it, Burns would have wholeheartedly agreed with Blake that ‘Lawful Bread, Bought with Lawful Money, & a Lawful Heaven, seen thro’ a Lawful Telescope, by means of a Lawful Window Light! The Holy Ghost, & whatever cannot be Taxed, is Unlawful & Witchcraft’.