Читать книгу Poems and Songs of Robert Burns - Robert Burns - Страница 34

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Tune—“Prepare, my dear Brethren, to the tavern let's fly.”

No churchman am I for to rail and to write,

No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight,

No sly man of business contriving a snare,

For a big-belly'd bottle's the whole of my care.

The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow;

I scorn not the peasant, though ever so low;

But a club of good fellows, like those that are here,

And a bottle like this, are my glory and care.

Here passes the squire on his brother—his horse;

There centum per centum, the cit with his purse;

But see you the Crown how it waves in the air?

There a big-belly'd bottle still eases my care.

The wife of my bosom, alas! she did die;

for sweet consolation to church I did fly;

I found that old Solomon proved it fair,

That a big-belly'd bottle's a cure for all care.

I once was persuaded a venture to make;

A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck;

But the pursy old landlord just waddl'd upstairs,

With a glorious bottle that ended my cares.

“Life's cares they are comforts”—a maxim laid down

By the Bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the black gown;

And faith I agree with th' old prig to a hair,

For a big-belly'd bottle's a heav'n of a care.