Heart--cheerin' bev'rage, weel--brew'd Tea,
Souchong--Imperial, or Bohea--
Or leel, or sad, I lo'e to see
Thy dark streams flow;
To young and auld, ay dear thou'lt be,
Care's welcome foe!

Tho' slander raves, while o'er thee set,
An' maks weak heartless bodies fret;
Just sae, o'er dear--bought wines, when met
A drouthie crew,
Puir modest worth can seldom get
The tribute due.

Peace to his saul, wha brought thee o'er
First to auld Albion's craggy shore;
Ne'er dreamt the chiel, the shrub he bore
By cuifs despis'd,
While wild woods wave, and billows roar,
Will ay be priz'd.

While monie tuim the reemin stoup,
That thraws the strangest on his doupe,
How happy they, wha form a groupe,
Thy balm to share!
Thou, nor destroy'st the puir man's hope,
Nor adds to care.

Thou serv'st for drink--thou serv'st for meat--
To king and cottar thou'rt a treat;
Frae tiny weeans, lispin' sweet,
To age bent down,
'Mid Norlan frosts, or Suthern heat,
Weel art thou known.

To fam'd Sam Johnson
thou wert dear!
The kettle's sang he lo'ed to hear;
Nae organ's swellin' notes cou'd e'er
Sic joy impart;
And warm'd by thee, his converse clear
Charm'd ilka heart.

Howard
to sordid int'rest blind,
Wha sought to succour a' mankind,
In thee cou'd ay a solace find,
When welcom'd hame;
For thou wert gien to soothe the mind--
Prais'd be thy name!

O'er thee, I've studied monie a sang,
When blasts blew wild, and nights were lang;
Such, wisdom's chiels may ay think wrang;
Spite o' their lear,
Wha rhymes to gie grim vice a bang,
Has nought to fear!

O'er thee, I've tasted luive's pure joy,
An' aft suppress'd the risin' sigh:
Nae mair the wee deceitfu' boy
Can cause alarms;
His powerfu' dart I dare defy,
An' beauty's charms!

O'er thee, I've griev'd for monie a wight,
An' schem'd to mak his sorrows light:
While I hae pow'r R. A. to write,
Be this my plan,
The lave to help, but ne'er to slight
Puir luckless man!

O'er thee, in youth, and now in age,
Mankind I've trac'd on monie a page;
The patriot bauld, the deep--learn'd sage,
The grave divine;
The pension'd tribe, wha vauntin rage,
But ne'er can shine.

O'er thee, I pray to see the day,
When toil--worn man, o'er lang a prey
To star--clad brithers, shall be gay;
An' bless the hour,
When tyranny 'gan to decay,
An' lose his pow'r.

O'er thee, I've thought wi' heartfelt scorn,
O' what ilk mortal yet shou'd mourn;
How Afric's sons frae hame were torn,
An' basely sauld;
Blush, Britons! at sic deeds, hell--born,
Whene'er their tauld!

I mind what comfort thou cou'd'st gie,
Whan todlen roun my minny's knee;
An' lang as I hae pow'r to prie,
At morn and eve,
Be mine sax cups o' wholesome Tea,
I'll scorn to grieve!

Wae wait the loons! few be their days,
Wha'd folk destroy wi' leaves o' slaes,
An' pois'nous weeds, their walth to raise,
Spite o' our laws!
May auld Nick on sic deadly faes
Suin fix his claws!

Ye fair, wi' whom I've far'd fu' bra',
Peace to yer bosoms, ane an' a'!
An achin head ne'er may ye cla',
But lang be blest;
An' Tea yer troubles wash awa',
Till sunk in rest!

Ye chiels whom I hae cause to prize,
Wha Tea wi' me wou'd ne'er despise;
Wha wish'd me ay the wale o' joys,
An' sooth'd ilk care;
Leel be yer hearts, my merry boys,
When I'm nae mair!