Bladnoch 8yo Single Malt Scotch Whisky at the Wigtown Book Festival
September 14th, 2009
The Bladnoch 8-Year-Old Launch
03 October 2009 – 18:00 pm – Main Hall – £10.00
Join us for the launch of Bladnoch’s 8-year-old malt, the first since the distillery reopened. The celebrations will include a tasting by John Lamond, while the Robert Burns Fellow, Rab Wilson, will toast the new arrival in verse. Music is provided by Willie Drennan and members of the Ulster-Scots Folk Orchestra.
Visit both the distillery and the festival at;
The Bladnoch Dram
This gless, that’s fou o heirt’s desire,
O Gallovidian liquid fire,
Hus caused ma Muse tae strike her lyre,
An praise yer name,
Tae heize the name o Wigtounshire,
An Bladnoch’s fame!
Juist eicht year auld, this vera day,
Yet auncient forces here haud sway,
Wha cuid explain the mysteries
O your creatioun,
That, haund in haund, wi history,
Define oor Nation.
Whit’s in the gless? ah hear ye ask,
Ah howp ah’m equal tae the task,
O trying tae uncork the cask,
O this conundrum,
That ithers ettled tae unmask-
It did confound thaim!
The source o wuin, oan Maberry Loch,
The whirrin wings o fleyed Bladcock,
The plash o watter, ower the rocks,
In dowie linns,
A Beltie, glaur up tae the houghs,
Amangst the whins.
The aik, the birk, the rowan tree,
The Simmer-laden’t honey bee,
The stoupin Tiercel, whan it sees,
Its hapless prey,
Bog-cotton, bending in the breeze,
Oan Autumn days.
Gowden fields o barley waving,
Cawin crousely, Cairnsmore’s raven,
Staunin stanes, wi eemage graven,
Years lang syne,
Haly men, wha socht sauf haven,
Auncient shrines.
Auld stane brigs, criss-crossin Bladnoch,
Tannylaggie, Spittal, Glossoch,
Linn o Barhoise, Polbay, Pack-Horse,
Whaur cattel drovers,
Caw’d their shaggy owsen aff,
An saufly ower.
A lane kingfisher spies its catch,
Thon brilliant blue electric flash,
Disturbs the Simmer wi a splash
The minnon’s taen,
Then tae its nest in heidlang dash
Is swiftly gaen.
Thon couple, in the gloamin’s mist,
The tender lover’s whispert tryst,
The munelit pool, still motionless,
Whaur twa streams met,
The promise gien, sealed wi a kiss,
That’s frae the heirt.
As starns abune the muirlaund kindle,
The peek-reek frae some farmers ingle,
Some auld Scotch-air, played oan the fiddle,
Ye cannae name,
Some ill-faured poet’s crambo-jingle,
Tha speiks o hame.
The slow, meanderin turns aa made,
Ye’re siphoned aff along the lade,
Tae whaur this magic spirit’s made,
That cures aa ills,
The grist, tae mash, syne wort, then gaes
In copper stills.
Till, maister-blender satisfied,
Percentage pruif is certified,
Timmed intae barrels, syne tae lie
Fir dreamin years.
Bladnoch deid’s nou cam alive,
An’s risen here!
This gless o Bladnoch in ma haund,
Hauds aa these aspects o oor laund,
A magic-mix, o plain or graund,
Jurmummled here,
This dear auld frien, the fawmous brand,
We loe sae dear!
Written by Rab Wilson to celebrate the recent launch of our new 8yo
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