Q&B - Songs
Q&B do not have the authority to grant permission for the copy or other use of any of the lyrics presented on this page. You would have to obtain permission directly from the creator(s) or copyright holder(s). If you or someone else deserves credit for anything on this site, or if anything here should not be presented for any reason, please let us know immediately and we will promptly take care of it.
Bottle of the Best
Traditional
When your time for work is done,
and you've earned yourself some fun
In the pub ye start to sup, you're drinkin', clinkin' every cup
Through the pint pots you're perusing,
and you're boozin' till you're snoozin'
And you're losin' all your senses to the drink.
But when all these folks so prim -- are swiggin' swill up to the brim
with Nips of gin and numbered Pimms with sugar rubbed around the rim
Let them drink until they drop, for the sly, besotted Scot
He'll be breakin' out a bottle o' the best.
Aye, to hell with all the rest, give me a bottle o' the best
The amber bead I'll down with speed;
it's no bad taste or waste, just greed
And a whisky still I'll kill,
I'll drink my fill and if I spill a gill
You know I will, I'll lick it off the floor.
I'll not touch Teachers, Grants nor Haig,
give me Bowmore or Laphroaig,
Glenfarclas in a glass, well ye can throw the top away
For there's no use to pretend that ye'll need the cork again
When you've broken out a bottle o' the best.
And the English like their ale
warm and flat, straight out the the pail
They aye slitter with their bitter;
it would slaughter Jack the Ripper,
And they sip their cider rough,
they sniff their snuff and huff and puff,
And as if that's not enough, they start to sing.
When Jones' Ale Was new, or John Barleycorn's fine brew
Fathom the Bowl, the Barley Mow, Bring us a Barrel, just a few
But their songs are far surpassed by the tinkle in the glass
When you've broken out a bottle of the best.
And the Irish, with their Pride of Erin, think they can deride
Our golden water with their patter when they're out upon the batter,
Sixteen hundred pints o' stout, a drinkin' bout without a doubt
And if they've not got the gout they start to dance.
Father O'Flynn and Larry O'Gaff, Biddy the Bowlwife, for a laugh
The Young May Moon, the Garry Owen, the Blackbird drives them daft
But their jigs have no appeal to a Scot who likes to reel
When he's broken oot a bottle o' the best.
Aye, a bottle o' the best, that's what it is, no idle jest
No Mickey Finn, no rotgut gin,
no bathtub wine that tastes like Vim
Have no fear, it's not like beer;
malt whisky's strong and bright and clear
And it's also bloody dear, but what the hell.
And it belts ye in the belly like a heavyweight Lochgelly
A glow begins to grow, six in a row turns ye tae jelly
Then ye dream, perchance to sleep, but ye fall down in a heap
For you've broken out a bottle of the best.