A cogie o' yill

A cogie o' yill,

And a pickle aitmeal,

And a dainty wee drappie o' whiskey,

Was our forefathers' dose.

For to sweel down their brose,

And keep them aye cheery and frisky,

Then hey for the whiskey, and hey for the meal,

And hey for the cogie, and hey for the yill,

Gin ye steer a' thegither they'll do unco weel,

To keep a chiel cheery and brisk aye.

When I see our Scots lads,

Wi' their kilts and cockauds,

That sae aften ha'e lounder'd our foes, man;

I think to mysel',

On the meal and the yill,

And the fruits o' our Scottish kail brose, man.

Then hey, &c.

When our brave Highland blades,

Wi' their claymores and plaids,

In the field drive like sheep a' our foes, man;

Their courage and pow'r—

Spring frae this to be sure,

They're the noble effects o' the brose, man.

Then hey, &c.

But your spyndle-shank'd sparks,

Wha sae ill fill their sarks,

Your pale-visaged milksops and beaux, man;

I think when I see them,

'Twere kindness to gi'e them—

A cogie o' yill or o' brose, man.

Then hey, &c.

What John Bull despises,

Our better sense prizes,

He denies eatin' blanter ava, man;

But by eatin' o' blanter.

His mare's grown, I'll warrant her,

The manliest brute o' the twa, man.

Then hey, &c.