The braes ascend like lofty wa's, The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers, Let fortune's gifts at random flee, OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW Tune- Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey." Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, For there the bonie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best; There wild woods grow, and rivers row, And mony a hill between; By day and night my fancy's flight I see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair; I hear her in the tunefu' birds, But minds me o' my Jean. wood AULD LANG SYNE, Should auld acquaintance be forget, Chorus. For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, And we'll tak a cup of kindness yet For auld, &c. We twa hae run about the braes, But we've wander'd mony a weary foot For auld, &c. We twa hae paidl'd i' the burn, From morning sun till dine ; But seas between us braid hae roar'd Sin' auld lang syne. For auld, &c. And here's a hand, my trusty fiere1, And gie's a hand o' thine; And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught', For auld lang syne. For auld, &c. companion. 'iraught. JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. John Anderson, my jo, John, John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; TAM GLEN. Tune—' The mucking o' Geordie's Byre.' My heart is a breaking, dear Tittie, But what will I do wi' Tam Glen? I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fellow, If I maunna marry Tam Glen? There's Lowrie the laird o' Dumeller, " 'Guid-day to you,'-brute! he comes ben: He brags and he blaws o' his siller; But when will he dance like Tam Glen? smooth. 2 poverty. make a shift. My minnie does constantly deave1 me, And bids me beware o' young men ; But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen? My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him, My heart to my mou gied a sten": My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken, THE HAPPY TRIO. Tune Willie brew'd a peck o' maut.' O, Willie brewed a peck o' maut, Chorus. We are na fou, we're no that fou, The cock may craw, the day may daw, 1 deafen. • leap. 3 watching 4 wet. Here are we met, three merry boys, Three merry boys, I trow, are we; It is the moon, I ken her horn, Wha first shall rise to gang awa, TO MARY IN HEAVEN. Tune-Miss Forbes' Farewell to Banff.' Thou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray, Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallow'd grove, Where by the winding Avr we met, To live one day of parting love! Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace; Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! |