There's not a bonie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green, There's not a bonie bird that sings, 1788. 15 1790. 5 10 AULD LANG SYNE CHORUS.—For auld lang syne, my dear, 1788? For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne. Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, And surely I'll be mine; And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet We twa hae run about the braes, But we've wandered monie a weary fit We twa hae paidled in the burn, Frae morning sun till dine; But seas between us braid hae roared And there's a hand, my trusty fiere, And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught, TAM GLEN My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie, To anger them a' is a pity, But what will I do wi' Tam Glen? 135 1796. I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fellow In poortith I might mak a fen'; What care I in riches to wallow, If I mauna marry Tam Glen? There's Lowrie the laird o' Dumeller: 5 “Guid day to you”—brute!—he comes ben; 10 He brags and he blaws o' his siller, But when will he dance like Tam Glen? My minnie does constantly deave me, But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen? My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him, Yestreen at the valentines' dealing, My heart to my mou gied a sten; For thrice I drew ane without failing, The last Halloween I was waukin My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken; His likeness came up the house staukin, And the very gray breeks o' Tam Glen! Come, counsel, dear Tittie, don't tarry; Gif ye will advise me to marry The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen. JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO When we were first acquent, Your bonie brow was brent: 1789. TAM O' SHANTER When chapman billies leave the street, We think na on the lang Scots miles, This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, O Tam, had'st thou but been sae wise That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on Thou would be found deep drowned in Doon, Ah, gentle dames, it gars me greet But to our tale. Ae market-night Tam had got planted unco right, Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter, Care, mad to see a man sae happy, But pleasures are like poppies spread- Or like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place; 65 35 330 25 Evanishing amid the storm. Nae man can tether time or tide: The hour approaches Tam maun ride; That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, The wind blew as 't wad blawn its last; Weel-mounted on his gray mare Meg, A better never lifted leg, Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet, Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet, By this time he was cross the ford, Whare in the snaw the chapman smoored; And past the birks and meikle stane, Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane; And thro' the whins and by the cairn, Whare hunters fand the murdered bairn; And near the thorn, aboon the well, 90 95 Whare Mungo's mither hanged hersel. The doubling storm roars thro' the woods; The lightnings flash from pole to pole; 100 105 What dangers thou canst make us scorn! |