To William Stewart

Brownhill Monday even:

Dear Sir,

In honest Bacon's ingle-neuk,
Here maun I sit and think;
Sick o' the warld and warld's fock,
And sick, damned sick o' drink!

I see, I see there is nae help,
But still down I maun sink;
Till some day, laigh enough, I yelp,
'Wae worth that cursed drink!'

Yestreen, alas! I was sae fu',
I could but yisk and wink;
And now, this day, sair, sair I rue,
The weary, weary drink.

Satan, I fear thy sooty claws,
I hate thy brunstane stink,
And ay I curse the luckless cause,
The wicked soup o' drink.

In vain I would forget my woes
In idle rhyming clink,
For past redemption damn'd in Prose
I can do nought but drink.

For you, my trusty, well-try'd friend,
May Heaven still on you blink;
And may your life flow to the end,
Sweet as a dry man's drink!

Rabbie Burns