You’ve surely heard o’ famous Neil, The man that played the fiddle weel, I wat he was a canty chiel’, And dearly lo’ed the whiskey, O! And ay sin’ he wore tartan trews, He dearly lo’ed the Athole brose; And wae was he you may suppose, To play fareweel to whiskey, O. 
Alake, quoth Neil, I’m frail and auld, And find my bluid grows unco cauld, I think ’twad mak me blythe and bauld, A wee drap highland whiskey, O Yet the doctors they do agree, That whiskey’s no the drink for me: Saul, quoth, ’twill spoil my glee, Should they part me and whiskey, O. 
Tho’ I can get baith wine and ale, And find my head and fingers hale, I’ll be content, tho’ legs should fail, To play fareweel to whiskey, O. But still I think on auld lang syne, When Paradise our friends did tyne, Because something ran in their mind Forbid, like highland whiskey, O. 
Come, a’ ye powers of music, come! I find my heart grows unco glum; My fiddle-strings will no play bum To say fareweel to whiskey, O. Yet I’ll tak my fiddle in my hand, And screw the pegs up while they’ll stand, To mak a lamentation grand, On gude auld highland whiskey, O. 
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