Page:Tibby Fowler (3).pdf/7

 Come in, auld carle, I'll steer my fire,

I'll mak it bleeze a bonnie flame,

Your bluid is thin, ye've tint the gate,

Ye should na stray sae far frae hame.

Nae hame hae I the minstrel said,

Sad party-strife o'erturn'd my ha';

And, weeping, at the eve of life,

I wander thro' a wreath o' snaw.





You've surely heard o' famous Neil,

The man that play'd the fiddle weel

I wat he was a canty chiel,

And dearly lo'ed the whisky, O.

And ay since he wore tartan hose,

He dearly lo'ed the Athol brose,

And wae he was, you may suppose,

To play fareweel to whisky, O.

Alake, quoth Neil, I'm frail and auld,

I find my bluid growing unco cauld,

I think 'twad mak me blythe and bauld

A wee drap Highland whisky, O.

And yet the doctors a' agree,

That whisky's no the thing for me;