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. Old Loda, still rueing the arm of Fingal, The god of the bottle sends down from his

Fintry, my stay in wordly strife, Friend o' my muse, friend o' my life, Are ye as idle's I am? Come then, wi' uncouth kintrafleg, O'er Pegasus I'll fling my leg, And ye shall see me try him. But where shall I go rin a ride, That I may splatter nanebeside? I wad nabe uncivil: