The Humours of Whiskey Colm R. McGuinness

[Verse 1]
Let your quacks and newspapers be cuttin' their capers
About curin' the vapours, the scratch, and the gout
With their medical potions, their serums and lotions
Upholdin' their notions, they're mighty put out
Who can tell the true physic to all that's pathetic
And pitch to the divil cramp, colic, and spleen?
And you'll know it, I think, if you take a big drink
With your mouth to the brink of a jug of poitín

[Chorus]
So stick to the cratur, the best thing in nature
For sinkin' your sorrows and raisin' your joys!
Oh, what botheration! No dose in the nation
Can give consolation like poitín, me boys!

[Verse 2]
No liquid cosmetic to lovers athletic
Or bodies pathetic can give such a bloom
As a sweet by the powers in the gardеn of flowers
Ever gave thеir own bowers such a darlin' perfume
And this liquid so rare, if you willingly share
To be takin' your hair when it's frizzled and dead
Oh, the sod has the merit to yield a true spirit
So strong it'll shake all the hairs from your head