PS：我懷疑沒有中譯本，王佐良先生的集子中沒搜到（確切說我們學校的讀秀上都沒有）
POSTCRIPT.
Let half-starv'd slaves, in wanner skies,
See future wines, rich-clusterin rise;
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies,
But blythe and frisky, She sees her free-born, martial boys,
Tak aff their Whisky.
What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms,
While fragrance blooms, and beauty charms!
When wretches range, in famish'd swarms,
The scented groves, Or hounded forth, dishonour arms
In hungry droves.
Their gun's a burden on their shouther;
They downa bide the stink o' powther;
Their bauldest thought's a hank'rink swither
To stan' or rin,
Till skelp—a shot—they're aff, a' throwther,
To save their skin.
But bring a Scotsman frae his hill,
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill,
Say, sic is royal Geordie's will,
And there's the foe, He has nae thought, but how to kill
Twa at a blow
Nae cauld, faint-hearted doublings tease him! Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him; Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gies him:
And when he fa's, His latest drnught o' breathin lea'es him
In faint huzzas.
Sages, their solemn een may steek,
And raise a philosophic reek,
And physically causes seek,
In clime and season;
But tell me Whisky's name in Greek,
I'll tell the reason.
Scotland, my auld respecket Mither!
Tho' whiles you moistify your leather,
Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather,
Ye tine your dam;
Freedom and Whisky gang thegither!
Tak aff your dram!