Raise a glass to the stillman’s skill,
alone in the night, he tends his still.
Charges the wash, brings to the boil,
dewy beads form in a coppel coil.
Starts at a trickle, then a flow,
cloudy foreshots the first to show.
Checks for strength, clear of mist,
Crystal spirit o’ coarse milled grist.
Spirit safe cranks, sounding the hour,
seizes the essence o’ barley flower.
Clear flows the run, pulses the heart,
cuts the middle wi’ his stillman’s art.
Draught o’ his craft, now bares its soul,
character’s formed in a tulip bowl.
Then raise your glass, my kindred host,
wi’ Scotia’s gold, our worthy toast.
Met dank aan
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