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Curse all your foreign trash, say I,
 Give me but good Scotch Whiskie.

Let Monsieurs of their Brundy brag,
 Distill’d from Gallic vine, Sir,
Let Dons and Portuguese rehearse,
 The praises of their Wine, Sir;
Jamaica Rum is but a hum.
 So is the best Antigua;
And Holland’s Gin’s not worth a pin,
 Compar’d to dear Kilbegie.
   And O, &c.

Let squeamish beaux, and powder'd fops.
 Quaff Sherry or Champaign, Sir,
Such Frenchify’d refin’d milk-fops
 are but their country’s stain, Sir;
But Scotia’s real heroic sons,
 Such cold libations scorn, Sir,
They love the sparkling warm heart’s blood
 Of Sir John Barleycorn, Sir.
   And O, &c.

Then fill us up a glass, my lads,
 And let us have our fill, Sir;
That cutty-stoup will never do,
 Bring in the Hawick-gill, Sir.
Tis true, our cash is growing scant,
 (and so much more's the pity,)
But while we have a penny left,
 We’ll spen't on Aquavitæ.
   And O, &c.