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SONGS, ETC. |
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SONG.
On Tweeds bonnie banks, in summer's gay light,
To angle we meet and be frisky ; [hill.
Where the peat-reeking still, on the brown heather Pours its streams of bright generous whisky. Oh, the rich, generous whisky, The heart-cheering, mirth-making whisky, All the evils of life, so bleak and so rife, Are cured with a bumper of whisky.
Are you sad, are you glad, are you moping or mad—
Are you sulky, or wish to be frisky— Come fly to the rill, and your basket you'll fill,
And be charm'd with a bumper of whisky. Is the plague of your life a termagant wife,
Who glooms when you wish to be frisky ? Bring her up to the hill, by the true-famed rill,
We'll soothe her to kindness with whisky.
Oh, the rich, &c.
Are you lawyer or doctor, or parson or proctor,
Who ne'er enjoyed being frisky ? Whate'er vour condition, come here, and remission
Receive in a bumper of whisky. All ranks and degrees, here grouped at their ease,
Are jovial, and canty, and frisky ; And care and dull sadness are wash'd into gladness,
In bumpers of generous whisky.
Oh, the rich, &c. |
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