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 smokey fire, nay it's still not quite there. Then into casks, to mature in guarded, whispery, stone clad chambers to rest. While mystically mingling and consorting with aged woods and time, for never more Fragrant dew was ever drawn into glass. From heather covered, plaid hills and glens of a heartland held dear. For a highborn heart was given to Uisge Beathe. Be it truly Scotland's precious own, giving character and life to, Muirhead's Uisge Beatha, that is onlyt grander when raised in honour and shared by all.