The Whistle: A Ballad

5Old Loda, still rueing the arm of Fingal,

6The god of the bottle sends down from his hall—

7“The Whistle’s your challenge, to Scotland get o’er,

8And drink them to hell, Sir! or ne’er see me more!”

9Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell,

10What champions ventur’d, what champions fell:

11The son of great Loda was conqueror still,

12And blew on the Whistle their requiem shrill.

13Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur,

14Unmatch’d at the bottle, unconquer’d in war,

15He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea;

16No tide of the Baltic e’er drunker than he.

17Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain’d;

18Which now in his house has for ages remain’d;

19Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood,

20The jovial contest again have renew’d.

21Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw

22Craigdarroch, so famous for with, worth, and law;

23And trusty Glenriddel, so skill’d in old coins;

24And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines.

25Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil,

26Desiring Downrightly to yield up the spoil;

27Or else he would muster the heads of the clan,

28And once more, in claret, try which was the man.

29“By the gods of the ancients!” Downrightly replies,

30“Before I surrender so glorious a prize,

31I’ll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,

32And bumper his horn with him twenty times o’er.”

33Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend,

34But he ne’er turn’d his back on his foe, or his friend;

35Said, “Toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field,”

36And, knee-deep in claret, he’d die ere he’d yield.

37To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair,

38So noted for drowning of sorrow and care;

39But, for wine and for welcome, not more known to fame,

40Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet lovely dame.

41A bard was selected to witness the fray,

42And tell future ages the feats of the day;

43A Bard who detested all sadness and spleen,

44And wish’d that Parnassus a vineyard had been.

45The dinner being over, the claret they ply,

46And ev’ry new cork is a new spring of joy;

47In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set,

48And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet.

49Gay Pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o’er:

50Bright Phoebus ne’er witness’d so joyous a core,

51And vow’d that to leave them he was quite forlorn,

52Till Cynthia hinted he’d see them next morn.

53Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night,

54When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight,

55Turn’d o’er in one bumper a bottle of red,

56And swore ’twas the way that their ancestor did.

57Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage,

58No longer the warfare ungodly would wage;

59A high Ruling Elder to wallow in wine;

60He left the foul business to folks less divine.

61The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end;

62But who can with Fate and quart bumpers contend!

63Though Fate said, a hero should perish in light;

64So uprose bright Phoebus-and down fell the knight.

65Next uprose our Bard, like a prophet in drink:—

66“Craigdarroch, thou’lt soar when creation shall sink!

67But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme,

68Come—one bottle more—and have at the sublime!

69“Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with Bruce,

70Shall heroes and patriots ever produce:

71So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay;

72The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day!”