Indeed, this looks like a revised and improved version of the poem I posted above.

From The Oriental Herald, Volume 20 (London: 1829), page 302:

Song.—A WEE DRAPPIE O'T.
By Henry Scott, a young Scottish poet.
Air—'O sair was my heart when I parted wi' my Jean.'

Now the sweetness o' Simmer is faded and past,
And grim Winter whistles wild in the war o' the blast;
Yet sae happy here's we'll be in our low hamely cot,
And rejoice 'neath the storm o'er a wee drappie o't.

Should Misfortune's grim visage ever stare at your door,
Oh, be patient, for soon soon this warld's faught is o'er;
And we'll struggle wi' its cares, aye contented wi' our lot,
And rejoice 'neath life's storms o'er a wee drappie o't.

Awa! thou dark demon o' sorrow and care,
Flee far wi' your gaunt train o' howling despair;
For gin you daur come here we will plunge ye in the pot,
And rejoice o'er your fa' wi' a wee drappie o't.

Then let's pledge to the land o' the free and the brave,
The wild land o' heather o' the rock and the wave,
Let us pledge the cause o' freedom for which our fathers fought!—
So here's to their mem'ry wi' a wee drappie o't.

To the cheerers o' life next we'll empty the bowl—
Oh, we'll pledge them wi' heart. and wi' hand, and wi' soul,
For how dismal would the gloom be, how hard wad be our lot,
An' it warna for the dearies and a wee drappie o't!

Oh, few, few and short are the joys that we know
Thro' this dark dreary pilgrimage o' sorrow and woe;
Yet there's still some sunny gleams to illume the lonely cot—
Oh, there's friendship, there's love, and a wee drappie o't!