Go bring that tuther whisky in,
An put no watter to it;
Fer I mun drink a bumper off,
To Scotland’s darling poet.

Its a hunderd year an thirteen nah,
This Jenewary morn,
Sin in a lowly cot i’ Kyle,
A rustic bard wor born.

He kettled up his moorland harp,
To ivv’ry rustic scene;
An sung the ways o’ honest men,
His Davey and his Jean.

Their wor nivver a bonny flaar that grew,
Bud what he could admire;
Their wor nivver lovely hill or dale,
That suited not his lyre.

At last ould Coilia sade enuff,
My bardy tha did sing,
Then gently tuke his moorland harp,
And brack it ivvery string.

An’ bindin’ up the holly wreath,
We all its berries red,
Sho placed it on his noble brow,
An pensively sho said:—

“So long as Willies bru ther malt,
An Robs an Allans spree;
Mi Burns’s songs an Burns’s name,
Remember’d thay shall be.