Robert Burns (1759–1796)

O WILLIE brewed a peck o’ maut,

And Rob and Allan cam’ to see;

Three blither hearts, that lee-lang night,

Ye wad na find in Christendie.

We are na fu’, we’re nae that fu’,

But just a drappie in our e’e;

The cock may craw, the day may daw,

And aye we’ll taste the barley bree.

Here are we met, three merry boys,

Three merry boys I trow are we;

And mony a night we’ve merry been,

And mony mae we hope to be!
We are na fu’, etc.

It is the moon—I ken her horn—

That’s blinkin’ in the lift sae hie;

She shines sae bright to wile us hame,

But, by my sooth, she’ll wait a wee!
We are na fu’, etc.

Wha first shall rise to gang awa’,

A cuckold coward loon is he!

Wha last beside his chair shall fa’,

He is the king amang us three!
We are na fu’, etc.