No Churchman am I

Robert Burns

 

 

        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 dont envy, I give him his bow; 

I scorn not the Peasant, tho' 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 o' my bosom, alas! she did die; 

For sweet consolation to church I did fly: 

I found that old Solomon proved it so 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 the old prig to a hair; 

For a big-belly'd bottle's a heaven o' care.