# The Book of Scottish Song/Willie brew'd a peck o' maut

Willie brew’d a peck o’ maut.
[Written by Burns in 1789, and set to music by Allan Masterton in Johnson's Museum. Lockhart has pronounced this "the best of all Burns's bacchanalian pieces." The meeting which it celebrates took place between the Poet, William Nicol, of the High School, Edinburgh, and Allan Masterton, another school-master, and musical amateur. Nicol had bought a small farm named Laggan, in the parish of Dunscore, Dumfriesshire, where he spent the autumn vacations. Allan Masterton and the Poet went on a visit to the "illustrious Lord of Laggan's many hills." Nicol, as in duty bound, produced his best. Tradition asserts, that day dawned long ere the guests arose to depart. "The air is Masterton's," says Burns, "the song is mine. . . . We had such a joyous meeting, that Mr. Masterton and I agreed, each in our own way, to celebrate the business."]
O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut, And Rob and Allan cam' to prie; Three blyther lads, that lee lang night. Ye wadna fand in Christendie.
We are na fou, we're no that fou, But just a wee drap in our e'e; The cock may craw, the day may daw, But aye we'll taste the barley bree.
Here are we met three merry boys; Three merry boys I trow are we: And mony a nicht we've merry been. And mony mae we hope to be!
It is the mune—I ken her horn— That's blinkin' in the lift sae hie; She shines sae bricht to wyle us hame, But by my sooth she'll wait awee.
Wha first shall rise to gang awa', A cuckold coward loun is he; Wha last beside his chair shall fa', He is the king amang us three.
SEQUEL TO THE ABOVE,
[Written by John Struthers, and published in the second volume of "The Harp of Caledonia," Glasgow, 1821.—William Nicol and Allan Masterton did not survive Burns much more than a year. "These three honest fellows," says Currie,—"all men of uncommon talents—were in 1798 all under the turf."]
The night it flew, the grey cock crew, Wi' blythesome clap o'er a' the three; But pleasure beam'd ilk moment new., And happier still they hop'd to be. For they were na fou, na, nae that fou, But just a drap in ilka e'e; The cock might craw, the day might daw They sippled aye the barley bree.
The moon, that from her silver horn
Pour'd radiance over tower and tree.
Before the fast approaching morn.
Sank, iax, behind yon western sea.
Yet they were na fou', &c.
And soon the gowden beams o' day Ting'd a' the mountain taps sae hie, And burnies' sheen with bickering play Awoke the morn's wild melody. But aye they sat, and aye they sang "There's just a wee drap in our e'e; And monie a day we've happy been, And monie mae we hope to be. ​The moon still fills her silver horn, But, ah! her beams nae mair they see; Nor crowing cock, nor dawning morn. Disturbs the worm's dark revelry. For they were na fou, na, nae that fou, But clay-cauld death has clos'd ilk e'e, And, waefu', now the gowden morn Beams on the graves o' a' the three.
Nae mair in learning Willie toils, Nor Allan wakes the melting lay, Nor Rab, wi' fancy-witching wiles, Beguiles the hour o' dawning day. For though they were na very fou, That wicked wee drap in the e"e Has done its turn—untimely, now The green grass waves o'er a' the three.