In the mists of Islay's gentle shore, Mary Queen of Scotch shall depart, After twenty-three years of craft and lore, Leaving echoes in the Bruichladdich heart. For Port Charlotte, robust and warm, And Octomore, a smoky serenade, Her touch was there, to weave and form, Lush spirits only she could have made. The Botanist, where wildflowers entwine, Her alchemy turned each blossom to gold, In glass, it sings in fragrant line, A tale of Islay legends told. Now the stills will miss her tender grace, But the spirits will linger in tribute and toast, For Mary leaves a timeless trace, A queen in every dram—a proud host.