University of Virginia Library

Flush'd with a double Draught of double Strong,
A merry Malt-man took his Morning Song;
Blyth as the Lark, chants to the rising Morn,
Sung to the Praise of Sir John Barleycorn:
He views the swelling Steep, and is well pleas'd,
The Font where Sir John Barleycorn's baptiz'd;
Gives him fresh Liquor, since his old is stale,
Knowing he'll pay him back in humming Ale;
Surveys his Circuit in its Breadth and Length,
And laughs to see him quicken unto Strength:
Then to the Kiln, his Altar, doth retire,
Where he, like Ceres Priest, keeps a perpetual Fire;
Upon his Bed of Straw makes him ly snug,
And cloathes him with a covenanted Rug,
The Kirk's Hair-gown, and by that Weed's foretold,
He'll prove a lusty Sinner when he's old.
Back to the Floor returns, takes a new Broom,
And, like a faithful Keeper, sweeps the Room:
Toil'd with his Morning Task, lies down to rest,
Making a Pillow of his Master's Breast.
Scarce has he sunk to downy sleep, when he
Is rous'd from dreaming, by a turning Key,
And Voice of Bully from a foreign Land,
Come to Sir John, to gage his Stock in Hand:
The figur'd Tap flies from Pandora's Box,
Worse than the Plague, the Pestilence or Pox,
Draws out an English Yard, and at the Length,
Measures his Breadth, his Thickness and his Strength;
Stop, stop ye English Taylor, Malt man cries,
And reverence my Master where he lies,
An English Suit was never on his Back,
Naked at Home, Abroad he wears a Sack.
D---n your Blood B---r Scot, quoth English Tom,
(Who was an honest Highway-man at Home.)
I'm Servant to old England, and be Gad,
We'll gage Sir John, and starve him out of Trade;
We'll levy Taxes by a pow'rful Host,
Go you complain unto Belhaven's Ghost.
May neither Oats nor Oxen grace your Ground,
Or Plants, or Eatables with you be found;
May Lice and Mange suck and corrupt your Blood,
And you, unfed, your self be Vermine's Food,
'Till you herd English Hogs, thro' Want of Bread,
And nought, save English Laws, be read be-north the Tweed
Who can describe the mournful Malt-man's Case;
Who saw old Tyburn in his English Face?
Three Times he knock'd his Heart, which sunk like Lead,
And thrice the Scoop he flourish'd round his Head,
Kicking the Besom, round the Floor he ran,
And threw a Firlot at the Gaging-man,
Whilst Peats, like Hail-stones, flew upon his Hide,
Cried, D---l steep you English Rogues in Clyde;
And when you have got sufficient of the Steep,
A Last of D---ls rot you in the Heap,
And work you thro' their Floor with hellish Skill,
Then dry you on their ever burning Kill;
Six Times he groan'd and fell upon Sir John,
Said, O my dear dead Master, art thou gone?
Ah! how can we survive thy fatal Fall,
Thou universal Parent of us all?
Sucking thy Blood we spent the merry Hours,
Thy Blood was consubstantiate with ours;
Our Mother's Milk was soon expel'd by thine,
A Liquor scarce inferior to the Wine;
Each Mouth, with Pleasure, gapt to let thee in;
The Nation was thy Flesh, thy Blood, thy near in Kin.

Glasgow, with Tears, lament thy rigid Fate,
From Glory tumbled to a wretched State;
Thy Ships, like Woods, danc'd on the wat'ry Brime.
To fetch the Indies to our native Clime;
From foreign Ports no more thy Vessels come,
And Sir John Barleycorn dies at Home.
Ah Glasgow! what's thy Guilt that makes thee poor?
Is it for bearing Arms at S---e;
Without Pay fighting for a F---n P---e;
A very fine Reward he's giv'n you since,
Weeping he threw himself upon Sir John,
Saying, I'll write thy Epitaph on Stone.