Th Wh —A B（1 / 2）

the whistle—a bald

i sg of a whistle, a whistle of worth,

i sg of a whistle, the pride of the north

was brought to the urt of our good sttish kg,

and long with this whistle all stnd shall rg

old loda, still rueg the ar of fgal,

the god of the bottle sends down fro his hall—

“the whistle&039;s your challen, to stnd t o&039;er,

and drk the to hell, sir! or ne&039;er see ore!”

old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell,

what chapions ventur&039;d, what chapions fell:

the n of great loda was neror still,

and blew on the whistle their reie shrill

till robert, the lord of the cairn and the scaur,

unatch&039;d at the bottle, unner&039;d war,

he drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea;

no tide of the baltic e&039;er drunker than he

th robert, victorio, the trophy has ga&039;d;

which now his hoe has for as rea&039;d;

till three noble chieftas, and all of his blood,

the jovial ntest aga have renew&039;d

three joyo good fellows, with hearts clear of fw

craigdarroch, fao for with, worth, and w;

and trty glenriddel, skill&039;d old s;

and galnt sir robert, deep-read old es

craigdarroch began, with a tongue sooth as oil,

desirg downrightly to yield up the spoil;

or else he would ter the heads of the cn,

and once ore, cret, try which was the an

“by the gods of the ancients!” downrightly replies,

“before i surrender glorio a prize,

i&039;ll njure the ghost of the great rorie ore,

and buper his horn with hi enty tis o&039;er”

sir robert, a ldier, no speech would pretend,

but he ne&039;er turn&039;d his back on his foe, or his friend;

said, “toss down the whistle, the prize of the field,”

and, knee-deep cret, he&039;d die ere he&039;d yield

to the board of glenriddel our heroes repair,

noted for drowng o