1804 Poem, James Orr, 'Tea'

Celestial tea! . . . a fountain that can cure

The ills of passion, and can free the fair

From sighs and frowns, by disappointment earn’d.

Ferguson.

Welcome, my frien’s, — ye’re just in time,

The kettle’s on, an’ soon will chyme;

An’ gif, tho’ us’d to strains sublime,

Ye’ll listen me,

I’ll clear my throat, an’ rudely rhyme

In praise o’ Tea.

What mak’s ye nice? I’m no yet stintet

To mashlin bread an’ weel-won mint to’t;

The far-fetch’d leaf is maistly grantet

Sev’n times a week’

An’, tak’ my word, the day I want it

The pipe does reek.

Leeze me on Tea! — the maskin pot

Keeps peace about the poor man’s cot:

Nae waitin’ wife misca’s the sot,

Wha stauchers hame wi’

A grain o’ pouther an’ o’ shot,

To charge the wame wi’!

The L—d leuk on her wretched bield,

Whase pence are out, and hank unreel’d!

Nae griddle’s het, nae pratoe peel’d,

To mak’ a bap o’t;

Nor weed nor head-ach tak’s the field

Without a drap o’t.

But blast the smuggler, fause an’ fell,

Wha brews’t in tinfu’s by hersel’;

An’ bribes the sma’-craft no to tell

Their drudgin’ daddy;

Deel nor he’d ay bounce in, pell-mell,

Just when ’tis ready.

When Riggie’s yell, an’ kitchen dear,

’Tis the poor cotter’s cheapest cheer:

The creamless blash, that sugar fair

Has little share in,

Sen’s glibly owre, his bonnoch bare,

An’ saut, saut herrin.

The poorest bodies far or near,

Their pipes wi’t ay on Sunday clear:

And a’ the state-days o’ the year;

But, chiefly, yule,

Wife, wean, an’ cat, can hardly bear

To let it cool.

At breakin’ clovin’, kirn, an’ quiltin’,

’Tis ay the base that bliss is built on;

An’ when the spae-wife to the Mill-town

In hiddlin’s slips,

Without it, vain were her consultin’

Divinin’ cups.

While roun’ the hag the young things catch

The story o’ their future match,

Tho’ a’ her skill’s no worth a fitch,

Sud at her haunch

Bauld Moses rise to “slay the witch,”

They’d mak’ him gaunch.

When claughin wives, wi’ heads in flannin’,

Forgether’d on a sabbath e’enin’,

Pit spoonfu’s twa a piece o’ green in;

(While wi’ the mother

The splain an’ stuffin’ — a’ compleenin’

Sit whazzlin’ throuther.)

Losh! how they rauner, rail, an’ ripple

Their nybers names, an’ mumph an sipple!

But, conscience! gif the auld delft nipple

Nae ooze wad bring,

The priest, an’ parish, king, an’ people,

Might tak their swing.

One wha oure-night has play’d the weary,

An’ crept frae slumber, half deleery,

Wi’ achin’ banes, an’ blinkers bleerie,

An’ tortur’d nerves:

While some slee jilt, wi’ mirth sincere ay,

His plight observes.

When wash’d his face, and camb’d his hair,

An’ in again frae takin’ air,

Sax reekin’ roun’s, or may be mair,

Can mak’ him able,

To think, an’ speak, an’ labour share,

In barn or stable.

Yet “Tea mak’s man a nerveless wrig,”

The doctor says — p-x on the prig!

Its juice has gladden’d monie a big,

An’ brave leel heart,

Wha’d firm as Gabbin keep the trig,

Or forward dart —

But, harkee! there’s a blyther singer;

I tald ye ’twad be nae lang hinger:—

Yestreen I daftly still’d the clangour

I’ the auld twin’d blether;

Or pints a piece o’ something stronger

We’d bouse thegither.