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| I SING of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth, | |
| I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North. | |
| Was brought to the court of our good Scottish King, | |
| And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall ring. | |
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| Old Loda, still rueing the arm of Fingal, | 5 |
| The god of the bottle sends down from his hall— | |
| “The Whistle’s your challenge, to Scotland get o’er, | |
| And drink them to hell, Sir! or ne’er see me more!” | |
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| Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, | |
| What champions ventur’d, what champions fell: | 10 |
| The son of great Loda was conqueror still, | |
| And blew on the Whistle their requiem shrill. | |
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| Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur, | |
| Unmatch’d at the bottle, unconquer’d in war, | |
| He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea; | 15 |
| No tide of the Baltic e’er drunker than he. | |
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| Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain’d; | |
| Which now in his house has for ages remain’d; | |
| Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood, | |
| The jovial contest again have renew’d. | 20 |
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| Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw | |
| Craigdarroch, so famous for with, worth, and law; | |
| And trusty Glenriddel, so skill’d in old coins; | |
| And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines. | |
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| Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil, | 25 |
| Desiring Downrightly to yield up the spoil; | |
| Or else he would muster the heads of the clan, | |
| And once more, in claret, try which was the man. | |
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| “By the gods of the ancients!” Downrightly replies, | |
| “Before I surrender so glorious a prize, | 30 |
| I’ll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More, | |
| And bumper his horn with him twenty times o’er.” | |
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| Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend, | |
| But he ne’er turn’d his back on his foe, or his friend; | |
| Said, “Toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field,” | 35 |
| And, knee-deep in claret, he’d die ere he’d yield. | |
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| To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, | |
| So noted for drowning of sorrow and care; | |
| But, for wine and for welcome, not more known to fame, | |
| Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet lovely dame. | 40 |
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| A bard was selected to witness the fray, | |
| And tell future ages the feats of the day; | |
| A Bard who detested all sadness and spleen, | |
| And wish’d that Parnassus a vineyard had been. | |
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| The dinner being over, the claret they ply, | 45 |
| And ev’ry new cork is a new spring of joy; | |
| In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set, | |
| And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet. | |
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| Gay Pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o’er: | |
| Bright Phoebus ne’er witness’d so joyous a core, | 50 |
| And vow’d that to leave them he was quite forlorn, | |
| Till Cynthia hinted he’d see them next morn. | |
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| Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night, | |
| When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, | |
| Turn’d o’er in one bumper a bottle of red, | 55 |
| And swore ’twas the way that their ancestor did. | |
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| Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage, | |
| No longer the warfare ungodly would wage; | |
| A high Ruling Elder to wallow in wine; | |
| He left the foul business to folks less divine. | 60 |
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| The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end; | |
| But who can with Fate and quart bumpers contend! | |
| Though Fate said, a hero should perish in light; | |
| So uprose bright Phoebus-and down fell the knight. | |
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| Next uprose our Bard, like a prophet in drink:— | 65 |
| “Craigdarroch, thou’lt soar when creation shall sink! | |
| But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, | |
| Come—one bottle more—and have at the sublime! | |
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| “Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with Bruce, | |
| Shall heroes and patriots ever produce: | 70 |
| So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay; | |
| The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day!” | |
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