Old Loda, still rueing the arm of Fingal,
The god of the bottle sends down from his hall—
"This whistle's your challenge, in Scotland get oer,
And drink them to hell, sir, or ne'er see me
Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell,
What champions ventured, what champions fell;
The son of great Loda was conqueror still,
And blew on the whistle their requiem shrill.
Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur,
Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquerd in war,