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O Whisky! soul o' plays and pranks,
Accept a Bardie's humble thanks;
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks
Are my poor verses!
Thou comes-they rattle i' the ranks
At ither's a-s!
Thee, Fairntosh, O sadly lost!
Scotland, lament frae coast to coast;
Now cholic grips, and barking hoast,
May kill us a',
For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast
Is ta'en awa!
Thae curst loch-leeches o' th Excise,
Wha mak the Whisky-Stells their prize,
Haud up thy han, Deil, ance, twice thrice!
There seize the blinkers!
And bake them up in brunstane pies,
For poor d-n'd drinkers.
Fortune, if thou'lt but gie me still
Hale breek, a scone, a Whisky-gill,
And rowth o'rhyme to rove at will,
Tak e' the rest,
And deal't about as thy blind skill
Directs thee best
