GOW'S FAREWEEL TO WHISKY.
You've surely heard o' famous Neil,
The man that played the fiddle weel;
I wat he was a canty chiel,
And dearly lo'ed the Whisky. O.
And ay since hs wore tartan trews,
He dearly lo'ed the Athole brose,
And wae was he you may suppose,
To play fareweel to Whisky, o.
Alake! quoth Neil I'm frail an' auld,
And find my bluid grow unco cauld,
I think 'twad make me blythe and bauld,
A wee drap Highland Whisky, O.
Yet the doctors they do a' agree,
That whisky s no the thing for me:
Saul quoth Neil 'twil spoil my, glee,
Should they part me and Whisky, O.
Tho' I can baith get wine aad ale,
And find my head and fingers hale,
I'll be content cho' legs should fail,
To play fareweel to Whisky, O.
But still l think on auld langsyne,
When Paradise our friends did tyne,
Because something ran in their mind,
Forbid, like Highland Whisky, O.
Come a' ye pow'rs of music come,
I find my heart grows unco glum,
My fiddle strings wili 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.