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Bottle o' the Best (Jack Foley; tune trad.) When your time o' work is done, and ye've earned yersel' some fun In the pub ye start tae sup, ye're drinkin', clinkin' every cup And the pint pots ye're preusin', and ye're boozin' till ye're snoozin' And ye're losin' a' yer senses tae the drink. But when a' these folks sae prim are swiggin' swill up tae the brim Nips o' gin and numbered Pimms wi' sugar rubbed aroon the rim Let them drink until they drop, for the sly, besotted Scot He'll be breakin' oot a bottle o' the best. Aye, tae hell wi' a' the rest, give me a bottle o' the best The amber bead I'll down wi' speed; it's no bad taste or waste, just greed And a whisky still I'll kill, I'll drink my fill and if I spill a gill You know I will, I'll lick it off the floor. I'll not touch Teachers, Grants nor Haig, gie me Bowmore or Laphroaig, Glenfarclas in a glass, well ye can throw the top away For there's no use tae pretend that ye'll need the top again When ye've broken oot a bottle o' the best. And the English like their ale warm and flat, straight oot the the pail They aye slitter wi' their bitter; it would slaughter Jack the Ripper, And they sip their cider rough, they huff and puff and sniff and snuff, And as if that's no' enough, they start tae sing. When Jones' Ale Was new, or John Barleycorn's fine brew Fathom the Bowl, the Barley Mow, Bring us a Barrel, just a few But their songs are far surpassed by the tinkle in the glass When you've broken oot a bottle of the best. And the Irish, wi' their Pride o' Erin, think they can deride Oor golden watter wi' their patter when they're oot upon the batter, Sixteen hundred pints o' stout, a drinkin' bout wi' oot a doubt And if they've no' got the gout they start tae dance. Father O'Flynn and Larry O'Gaff, Biddy the Bowlwife, for a laugh The Young May Moon, the Garry Owen, the Blackbird drives them daft But their jigs have no appeal tae a Scot who likes tae reel When he's broken oot a bottle o' the best. Aye, a bottle o' the best, that's what it is, nae idle jest Nae Mickey Finn, nae rotgut gin, nae bathtub wine that tastes like Vim Have no fear, it's not like beer; malt whisky's strong and bright and clear And it's also bloody dear, but what the hell. And it belts ye in the belly like a heavyweight Lochgelly A glow begins tae grow six in a row turns ye tae jelly Then ye dream, perchance tae sleep, but ye fall down in a heap For ye've broken out a bottle of the best. batter: spree Lochgelly: a thick leather strup used until recently by Scottish teachers to enforce disdipline. Copyright Jack Foley Recorded by Ed Miller, Border Background RG apr96
Thanks to Mudcat for the Digital Tradition!