To William Stewart

Available for over a year

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