The Makir o Still

Men wi’ the kna’k, in aul sod shacks,

Hid deep in the moss in the mountains,

Whaur they at wull set up their still

An produced the cratter in fountains.

Ye’ll naw bae surprised that although despised

Deed plenty partuk o’ their bounty,

But ony the man his craft han’ it doon

Cud lae claim tae the croon o’ the county.

Three times run as sure as a gun

Ivery rin baith tested an bottled,

Then spirited awa’ rowled up in hie

Tae a getherin’ whaur a’ cud git sottled.

It micht bae a waddin’ or it micht bae a waik

Ir it micht bae a gran’ Orange Ball,

An it wus aisy tae spot, the boy that had got,

They wur dancin’ or ether banterin’ the hall.

A cliver man kens that whaur iver still gang

There’s boun’ tae bae a wheen o’ objections

Slip doon an lee them, whaur the sergent wull see

That is ca’ed oor local protection.

Lee them bottles baith for the men o’ the claith

An the docter needs yin as well,

There wull bae nae restrictions on yer prescriptions

An the ither twa steers ye by hell.

Taytotallers themsels hide it in shelves

They sae jest for potions an’ lotions,

Ye kan lay in a tub an gie yersel a rub

Wi’oot the deil gien ye ony strange notions.

While mixed wae crame it tastes suprame

But maesel a’ wud rether hae honey,

A’ jest kent yin baste, wha hates the taste

The Gauger efter his money.

It’s the smell o’ the mash, that locates yer cache

An then sets them oot on yer trail,

But becaase o’ yer freens, aroon ivery ben’

Ye kan bae sure that their efforts wull fail.

An’ if yer plans ir derailed, an ye en up in jail

The aul R.M. wull lakely remember

That efter his lunch haes apt tae mak punch

Wi’ his last bottle or twa in December.

Wud ye iver hae thocht wae the traqickle ye bocht

An the yeast for tae help tae combine,

Mixed a’ in wi’ broon sugar an guid spring watther

An the rest ye jest lee tae time.

The fires keep low but weel stoke hir ye know

An aye check that the watther jest richt,

Here patience a virtue it cannae bae rushed

If pushed ye’ll sit through the nicht.

An in the airly dawn, lake a new wean boarn

Whun the wash sings oot hir last song

In that airly licht if a’ haes gane richt

The still an the still-mester haes gone.

Jest tae lift heavy hairts an tae a the weary impart

Yin raisin tae rise abain strife,

It’s naw for naethin, this ambrosia o’ joy

Is kent as the watther o’ life.