Page:Culloden-day, an old song (1).pdf/5

 And ay ſince he ware tartan trews, He dearly lo’ed the Athole-broſe, And wae he was, you may ſuppoſe, To play fareweel to Whiſky O.

Alake! quoth Neil, I’m frail and auld, And find my bluid grows unco cauld; I think ’twad mak me blythe and bauld, A wee drap Highland Whiſky O. Yet the doctors they do a’ agree. That Whiſky’s nae the thing for me; Saul, quoth Neil, ‘twill ſpoil my glee. Should they part me and Whiſky O.

Tho’ I can get baith wine and ale, And find my head and fingers hale. I’ll be content tho’ legs ſhould fail. To play farewel Whiſky O. But ſtill I think on auld langſyne. When Paradiſe our friends did tyne, Becauſe ſomething ran in their mind, Forbid the Highland Whiſky O.

Come a‘ ye powers o‘ muſic come! I find my heart grows unco glum; Mv fiddle-ſtrings will no play bum, To ſay fareweel to Whiſky O. Yet I’ll tak my fiddle in my hand. And ſcrew the ſtrings up while they’ll ſtand, To mak a lamentation grand On gude auld Highland Whiſky O.