Wi' brandy, or wi' foreign wine
He would not wet his craigie,
There's none of them can charms combine,
If match'd with the Kilbagie;
Then fill us up another glass,
And let us drink our fill, sirs,
What signifies the cutty stoup?
Bring in the Hawick gill, sirs.
What though o' siller we're bereft,
Sae muckle mair's the pity.
But while we ha'e a penny left
We'll gi'e't for aquavitae;
Then, O, my cheering, care-dispelling,
Heart-reviving whiskey,
Curse a' your foreign trash, say I,
Gi'e me good Highland whiskey.
Farewell to Whiskey.
[This is called "Neil Gow's Farewell to Whiskey," but we have not learned who was the author of the words. Neil was born in Strathbrand, in Perthshire, in 1727, and died at Inver, near Bunkeld, in 1807.]
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 whiskey, O!
And, aye sin he wore the tartan trews,
He dearly lo'ed the Athole brose;
And wae was he, you may suppose,
To play fareweel to whiskey, O.
Alake, quoth Neil, I'm frail and auld,
And find my blude grow unco cauld;
I think 'twad make me blythe and bauld,
A wee drap Highland whiskey, O.
Yet the doctors they do a' agree,
That whiskey's no the drink for me.
Saul! quoth Neil, 'twill spoil my glee,
Should they part me and whiskey, O.
Though I can baith get wine and ale,
And find my head and fingers hale,
I'll be content, though legs should fail,
To play fareweel to whiskey, O.
But still I think on auld lang syne,
When Paradise our friends did tyne,
Because something ran in their mind,
Forbid like Highland whiskey, O.
Come, a' ye powers o' music, come;
I find my heart grows unco glum;
My fiddle-strings will no play bum,
To say, Fareweel to whiskey, O.
Yet I'll take my fiddle in my hand,
And screw the pegs up while they'll stand,
To make a lamentation grand,
On gude auld Highland whiskey, O.
Up in the air.
[This convivial song is by Allan Ramsay. It will be remembered that the burthen of the first verse,
"Up in the air
On my bonnie grey mare,
And I see her yet, and I see her yet"—
is put into the mouth of poor Madge Wildfire, in Sir Walter Scott's inimitable tale of "The Heart of Mid Lothian."]
Now the sun's gane out o' sight,
Beet the ingle, and snuff the light:
In glens the fairies skip and dance,
And witches wallop o'er to France.
Up in the air
On my bonny grey mare,
And I see her yet, and I see her yet.
Up in, &c.
The wind's drifting hail and sna',
O'er frozen hags like a foot-ba';
Nae starns neek through the azure slit,
'Tis cauld and mirk as ony pit.
The man i' the moon
Is carousing aboon,
D'ye see, d'ye see, d'ye see him yet.
The man, &c.
Tak' your glass to clear your een,
'Tis the elixir heals the spleen,
Baith wit and mirth it will inspire,
And gently puffs the lover's fire.
Up in the air,
It drives away care,
Ha'e wi' ye, ha'e wi' ye, and ha'e wi' ye, lads, yet.
Up in, &c.
Steek the doors, keep out the frost,
Come, Willy, gi'es about ye'r toast,
Till't lads, and lilt it out,
