Postscript
Let half-starv’d slaves in warmer skiesSee future wines, rich-clust’ring, rise;Their lot auld Scotland ne’re envies,But, blythe and frisky,She eyes her freeborn, martial boysTak aff their whisky.
What tho’ their Phoebus kinder warms,While fragrance blooms and beauty charms,When wretches range, in famish’d swarms,The scented groves;Or, hounded forth, dishonour armsIn hungry droves!
Their gun’s a burden on their shouther;They downa bide the stink o’ powther;Their bauldest thought’s a hank’ring switherTo stan’ or rin,Till skelp—a shot—they’re aff, a’throw’ther,To save their skin.
But bring a Scotchman 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 killTwa 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 himIn 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 GreekI’ll tell the reason.
Scotland, my auld, respected mither!Tho’ whiles ye moistify your leather,Till, whare ye sit on craps o’ heather,Ye tine your dam;Freedom an’ whisky gang thegither!Take aff your dram!