From storm
clad highland precipices and craggy granite brakes it falls,
Over stock, rocks, through misty moorland, peated nooks and burns it rolls.
Mixed with barley, yeast, in copper,
Over smoky fire, nay it's still not quite there.
Then into casks to mature,
In guarded whispery stone clad chambers its Laid to rest.
All the while mystically mingling and consorting with
aged woods and time,
For never more fragrant dew was ever drawn into Mans glass,
From heather covered, plaid hills and glens from a
heartland held dear.
For a highborn heart was given to Uisge Beatha,
Be it’s truly Scotland's precious own giving
character and life;
To Uisge Beatha, that is only grander when raised in honor and shared.
