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　　Song—“No Churchman Am I”

　　Tune—“Prepare, my dear Brethren, to the tavern let's fly.”

　　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-belly'd bottle's the whole of my care.

　　The peer I don'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-belly'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-belly'd bottle's a cure for all care.

　　I once was persuaded a venture to make;

　　A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck;

　　But the pursy old landlord just waddl'd upstairs,

　　With a glorious bottle that ended my cares.

　　“Life's cares they are comforts”—a maxim laid down

　　By the Bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the black gown;

　　And faith I agree with th' old prig to a hair,

　　For a big-belly'd bottle's a heav'n of a care. Poems and Songs of Robert Burns