1788.

1788?

There's not a bonie flower that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green,
There's not a bonie bird that sings,
But minds me o' my Jean.

AULD LANG SYNE

CHORUS. For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne?

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp,
And surely I'll be mine;

And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet
For auld lang syne.

We twa hae run about the braes,
And pou'd the gowans fine;
But we've wandered monie a weary fit
Sin' auld lang syne.

We twa hae paidled in the burn,
Frae morning sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roared
Sin' auld lang syne.

And there's a hand, my trusty fiere,
And gie's a hand o' thine;
And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught,
For auld lang syne.

TAM GLEN

My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie,
Some counsel unto me come len';

To anger them a' is a pity,

But what will I do wi' Tam Glen?

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:
"Guid day to you"-brute!-he comes ben;
He brags and he blaws o' his siller,

But when will he dance like Tam Glen?

My minnie does constantly deave me,

And bids me beware o' young men: They flatter, she says, to deceive me;

But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen?

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him,

He'd gie me guid hunder marks ten;
But if it's ordained I maun take him,
O wha will I get but Tam Glen?
Yestreen at the valentines' dealing,

My heart to my mou gied a sten;
For thrice I drew ane without failing,
And thrice it was written "Tam Glen."
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;
I'll gie you my bonie black hen,
Gif ye will advise me to marry

The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen.

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO John Anderson, my jo, John,

When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonie brow was brent:

1789.

But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John,

We clamb the hill thegither;
And monie a cantie day, John,

We've had wi' ane anither:
Now we maun totter down, John,
And hand in hand we'll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo.

1790.

TAM O' SHANTER

When chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neebors neebors meet,
As market-days are wearing late,
An' folk begin to tak the gate,
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An' getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses
For honest men and bonie lasses).
O Tam, had'st thou but been sae wise
As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum,
That frae November till October
Ae market-day thou was nae sober;
That ilka melder wi' the miller
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;

That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;
That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday,
Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday.
She prophesied that, late or soon,

Thou would be found deep drowned in Doon,
Or catched wi' warlocks in the mirk
By Alloway's auld, haunted kirk.

Ah, gentle dames, it gars me greet
To think how monie counsels sweet,
How monie lengthened, sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises!

But to our tale. Ae market-night
Tam had got planted unco right,
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely;
And at his elbow, Souter Johnie,
His ancient, trusty, drouthy cronie:
Tam lo'ed him like a very brither;
They had been fou for weeks thegither.
The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter,
And ay the ale was growing better;
The landlady and Tam grew gracious,
Wi' secret favours, sweet and precious;
The souter tauld his queerest stories,
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus;
The storm without might rair and rustle,
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.

Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
E'en drowned himsel amang the nappy.
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,
The minutes winged their way wi' pleasure:
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!

But pleasures are like poppies spread-
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow falls in the river,

A moment white-then melts forever;
Or like the borealis race,

That flit ere you can point their place;
Or like the rainbow's lovely form,

25

30

35

40

45

50

55

60

65

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,
That dreary hour Tam mounts his beast in,
And sic a night he taks the road in
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.

The wind blew as 't wad blawn its last;
The rattling showers rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed;
Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellowed:
That night, a child might understand,
The Deil had business on his hand.

Weel-mounted on his gray mare Meg,
A better never lifted leg,

Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire,
Despising wind and rain and fire;
Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet,
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet,
Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares,
Lest bogles catch him unawares:
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.

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,
Whare Mungo's mither hanged hersel.
Before him Doon pours all his floods;
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods;
The lightnings flash from pole to pole;
Near and more near the thunders roll;
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees,
Kirk-Alloway seemed in a bleeze:
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing,
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.
Inspiring bold John Barleycorn,
What dangers thou canst make us scorn!