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 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 make me l’ythe and bauld, A wee drap Highland Whisky, O. Yet the doctors they do a’ agree, That whisky’s nae the drink for me; Saul! quoth Neil, ’twill spoil my glee, Should they part me and Whisky.
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 fareweel to Whisky, O. But still I think on auld langsyne, When Paradise our friends did tyne, Because something ran in their mind, Forbid, like Highland Whisky, O.
Come a’ ye powers of music, come! I find my heart grows unco glum, My fiddle-strings will no play bum, To say farewell 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.
