Classic Poem

Chorus

T HE drams for us, fill up the glass,
And that bottle pass about,
The son of malt, lad without fault,
His clan were no rabble rout.

Whoever with his tongue miscalled thee
Had a bad notion in his head;
If yet by thee he'll not enthralled be,
In my opinion I'm misled.

Were it one that never knew thee
That did thee violence with spite,
We ourselves would not pursue him,
For thy hold on him were slight.

But one that was a while thy fellow,
His no obligation was
To defame thy nature mellow,
On himself will fall his loss.

Who'd asperse one of thy moral,
Though himself were born in France?
Or with Ferintosh stuff quarrel,
Save a sumph not drinking drams?

Pure stuff, Ferintosh unblended,
Noblest among cordials all;
Better thy leeching than all leeches
That were or will be 'mong the Gall.

How could we complete a wedding,
Tighten bond, or covenant en'?
If we've no dram for the cleric,
He'd be useless with his pen.

The unco guid cry out upon thee
With backchat and foolish chatter,
With their lips, though they'll not own thee,
They will drink thee like spring-water.

Churchmen themselves, though sained their coat,
Their throats for thee are ramping,
There's some of them will take a swill
As deep as soldiers camping.

Dr Johnson with his English,
His Latin and Greek speech beside,
The heady stuff of the Gail left him
A philologer tongue-tied.

When he made a tour through Scotland,
And through yon Rough-bounds behind,
Mac-na-bracha left him helpless,
An idiot stuttering, blind.

I'd aye be glad, my darling lad,
Thy ranks to take my chance in,
Since oft we've been the twain of us,
Unpiped, unfiddled, dancing.