Another Of The Same

Let half-starv’d slaves in warmer skies See future wines rich-clust’ring rise; Their lot auld Scotland ne’er envies, But, blythe an’ frisky, She eyes her free-born martial boys Tak aff their whisky.

What tho’ their Phœbus kinder warms, While fragrance blooms an’ beauty charms, When wretches range in famish’d swarms The scented groves, Or, hounded forth, dishonour arms In hungry droves.

Their gun’s a burden on their shouther; They downa bide the stink o’ powther; Their bauldest thought’s a hank’ring swither To stan’ or rin, Till skelp! a shot—they’re aff, a’ throu’ther, To save their skin.

But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, Say ‘Such is royal George’s will, An’ there’s the foe!’ He has nae thought but how to kill Twa at a blow.

Nae cauld faint-hearted doubtings tease him; Death comes, wi’ fearless eye he sees him; Wi’ bluidy hand a welcome gies him; An’, when he fa’s, His latest draught o’ breathin’ lea’es him In faint huzzas.

Sages their solemn een may steek, An’ raise a philosophic reek, An’ physically causes seek In clime an’ season; But tell me whisky’s name in Greek, I’ll tell the reason.