Song—No Churchman am I
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-bellyÂ’d bottleÂ’s the whole of my care.
The peer I donÂ’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-bellyÂ’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-bellyÂ’d bottleÂ’s a cure for all care.
I once was persuaded a venture to make;
A letter informÂ’d me that all was to wreck;
But the pursy old landlord just waddlÂ’d upstairs,
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares.
“Life’s cares they are comforts”—a maxim laid down
By the Bard, what dÂ’ye call him, that wore the black gown;
And faith I agree with thÂ’ old prig to a hair,
For a big-bellyÂ’d bottleÂ’s a heavÂ’n of a care.
A STANZA ADDED IN A MASON LODGEThen fill up a bumper and make it oÂ’erflow,
And honours masonic prepare for to throw;
May evÂ’ry true Brother of the Compass and Square
Have a big-bellyÂ’d bottle when harassÂ’d with care.
Poems by Robert Burns
