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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.
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.
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.
PADDY ABDALLAH’S LEGACY.
My father he left me a snug little cot,
Which by one trifling accident I never got;
For dying without his will having been made
Not a legacy in it ever was paid!
Foorallallo, O hone! gramachree, whack.
Which by one trifling accident I never got;
For dying without his will having been made
Not a legacy in it ever was paid!
Foorallallo, O hone! gramachree, whack.
’Twas a neat little cot, built with weather-boa stout,
Which kept every thing else but the weath clean out;
Which kept every thing else but the weath clean out;
