CONVIVIAL AND HUMOUROUS TOASTS AND SENTIMENTS

A man when he’s sober is deils ill to ken; Gude sooks than there’s nae kenning o’ him. But prime him wi’ nappie, than ye mae gae ben And learn what he is—for ’twill show him.

A club of good fellows like those that are here And a bottle like this I most heartily cheer.

Here’s to the chief whose heart is brave, That merrily lives in the mountain cave And bides by greenwood law, Who scorns the weather, Whose bed’s the heather, Fill high, fill high together.

And let the careless moments roll In social pleasures unconfin’d And confidence that spurns control Unlock the inmost springs of mind.

And now I have lived—I know not how long. And still I can join in a cup or a song.

Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware That jaups in luggies; But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer, Gie her a Haggis!

Be’t whiskey gill, or penny wheep Or any stronger potion, It never fails, on drinking deep, To kittle up our notion By night or day.

Blythe, blythe, aroun’ the nappy, Let us join in social glee; While we’re here we’ll hae a drappy, Scotia’s sons hae aye been free.

Blythe may we a’ be, Ill may we never see.

By the gaily circling glass We can tell how minutes pass. By the hollow cask we’re told How the waning night grows old.

Comrades, you may pass the rosy. With permission of the Chair I shall leave you for a little, for I wish to take the air.

Drink to-day, and drown all sorrow; You shall perhaps not do’t to-morrow.

Food fills the wame, an’ keeps us livin’; Tho’ life’s a gift no worth receivin’ When heavy dragged in pine and grievin’; But oil’d by thee, The wheels o’ life gae down-hill, screivin, Wi’ rattlin’ glee.

Fortune, if thou’lt but gie me still Hale breeks, a scone, an’ whiskey gill, An’ rowth o’ rhyme to rave at will, Tak a’ the rest, An’ deal’t about as thy blind skill Directs thee best.

Freedom and whiskey gang thegither! Take aff your dram!

Gae fill the three pint cup o’ ale, The maul maun be above the meal, We hope your ale is stark and stout For men to drink the auld year out.

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 bouse, an’ deep carouse, Wi’ bumpers flowing o’er, Till he forgets his loves and debts, An’ minds his griefs no more.

Gude e’en to ye a’ an’ tak your nappy, A wully-waught’s a good night cappy.

Here’s your fery good healths And tamm ta whiskey duty.

In Vino Veritas! which means A man’s a very ass in liquor. The thief that slowly steals our brains Makes nothing but the temper quicker.

Inspiring, bold John Barleycorn, What dangers thou canst make us scorn.

Lang may they bloom, as aye they’ve been The pride o’ lang syne. Then fill the bicker reaming fu’ Wi’ Scotland’s Highland wine, An’ drink to a’ whar’re leel an’ true, An’ days o’ lang syne.

Let other poets raise a fracas ’Bout vines, and wines, and druncken Bacchus, And crabbit names and stories wrack us, An’ grate our lug, I sing the juice Scotch barley can make us, In glass or jug.

Let Pride in Fortune’s chariots fly, Sae empty, vain, and vogie; The source of wit, the spring of joy, Lies in the social coggie. Then O revere the coggie, sirs! The poor man’s patron coggie! It warsels care, it fights life’s faughts And lifts him frae the boggie.

Lees me wi’ drink. It gives us mair than either school or college, It wakens wit, it kindles lear An’ primes us fou o’ knowledge.

May love and whiskey both Rejoice an honest fellow, May the unripe joys of life Love and whiskey mellow.

Now fill your glasses ane an’ a’ And drink the toast I gie ye, O, “To merry chiels and lasses braw, And every joy be wi’ ye, O.” Fair fa’ the whiskey, O, Fair fa’ the whiskey, O, What wad a drouthy body do, If ’twere nae for the whiskey, O?

O gie me the times when the ploys were in vogue An’ the cake an’ the kebbuck gaed down wi’ the cogue.

O guid ale comes and guid ale goes, Guid ale gars me sell my hose, Sell my hose and pawn my shoon, Guid ale keeps my heart aboon.

There’s nought so sweet in this poor life As knittin’ soul to soul; And what maist close may bind that knot? The glass and bowl! The glass and bowl, my boys, The glass and bowl; So let us call, for this is out, Anither bowl. We never dabbled in the burn, Nor pull’d the gowan droll, But often has the sun’s return Surprised our bowl. Chorus—Our glass and bowl, etc. And aft did we the merry catch And cheering ditty troll, And hooted mony a whiggish wretch About the bowl. Chorus—Our glass and bowl, etc. And, therefore, hill betwixt may rise, And though ocean water roll, Yet we’ll ne’er forget the lads who met About the bowl. Chorus—Our glass and bowl, etc. And when yer poet’s dead and gane, And laid beneath the moul, Let those who sung his memory, drink About the bowl. Chorus—Our glass and bowl, etc.

Our heads cool, our feet warm. And a glass of good liquor to do us no harm.

Peat whiskey hot Tempered with well boiled water, These make the long night shorter.

See the smoking bowl before us, Mark our jovial ragged ring; Round and round take up the chorus, And in raptures let us sing.

Some hae meat and canna’ eat, And some wad eat who want it; But we hae meat and we can eat, So let the Lord be thankit.

Strong ale was ablution, Small beer persecution, A dram was memento mori; But a full flowing bowl Was the saving his soul, And port was celestial glory.

The grace is said: it’s nae o’wer lang; The claret reams in bells. Quo, Deacon, “Let the toast round gang, Come, here’s our noble sels’, Weel met the day.”

The Highlandman’s bauld, the Highlandman’s free, His arm is strong and his heart is true: What gives the Highlandman courage and glee? What but the drops of his mountain dew.

Life’s a bumper filled by fate, Let us guests enjoy the treat, Nor, like silly mortals, pass Life as ’twere but half a glass; Let this scene with joy be crown’d, Let the glee and catch go round! All the sweets of life combine, Mirth, music, love and wine.

Then fill up a bumper, and make it o’erflow, And honours masonic prepare for to throw; May every true brother of the compass and square Have a big-bellied bottle when harass’d with care.

Then here’s to ilka kindly Scot: Wi’ mony good broths he boils his pot, But rare hotch potch beats a’ the lot, It smells so brawly. For there’s carrots intill’t and neaps intill’t, There’s peas and beans and beets intill’t, The hearty wholesome meats intill’t That stick the kite sae brawly.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn, Each man a glass in hand; And may his great posterity Ne’er fail in old Scotland!

Then sip the dew, and cheerful sing, And loud the bagpipes play, man, And gae the very welkin ring Wi’ blithe St. Andrew’s Day, man.

There’s death in the cup—sae beware! Nay, more—there is danger in touching; But wha can resist the fell snare? The man and his wine’s sae bewitching.

To sum up all, be merry, I advise; And as we’re merry, may we still be wise.

We arena fou, we’re nae that fou, But just a drappie in our ee; The cock may craw, the day may daw, And aye we’ll taste the barley bree.

We hae a’ kinds o’ whisky, fre Glenlivet sae clear, That ne’er gaes a headache—to the five bawbee gear; We hae Gin, Rum, Shrub, and ither neck-rackets For them whan the clear stuff their brain sets in rackets We hae fine Yill frae Peebles, an’ Porter frae Lonnon— Ginger beer frae the toon, an’ Sma’ brisk an’ foaming; We hae Teas, Bread an’ Cheese, alias Welsh Rabbits; Ham, Eggs an’ Red Herrings for wairsh tasted gabbets. If at ony time aught else should be wanted We’ll raither send for ’t than see freen’s disappointed.

We meet to be merry, then let us part wise Nor suffer the bottle to blind reason’s eyes.

Wi’ tippeny, we fear nae evil; Wi’ usquebae, we’ll face the devil!