But now our joys are fled,
On winter blasts awa!
Yet maiden May, in rich array,
Again shall bring them a'.

But my white pow, nae kindly thowe
Shall melt the snaws of age;
My trunk of eild, but buss or bield,
Sinks in Time's wint'ry rage.
Oh, age has weary days,

And nights o' sleepless pain! Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime, Why com'st thou not again?

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

John Anderson my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither;
And monie a canty day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither:

Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we'll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo,

AULD LANG SYNE.

SHOULD auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to min'?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o' 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.

We twa hae run about the braes,
And pu't the gowans fine;

But we've wander'd monie a weary foot,
Sin' auld lang syne.
For auld, &c.

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn,
Frae mornin 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 fiere,
And gies a hand o' thine;

And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught,
For auld lang syne.
For auld, &c.

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.

For auld, &c.

HOPELESS LOVE.

Tune-"Liggeram Cosh."

BLITHE hae I been on yon hill,
As the lambs before me;
Careless ilka thought and free,
As the breeze flew o'er me:

Now nae longer sport and play,
Mirth or sang can please me;
Lesley is sae fair and coy,
Care and anguish seize me.

Heavy, heavy, is the task,

Hopeless love declaring:

embling, I dow nocht but glow
hing, dumb, despairing!

If she winna ease the thraws,
In my bosom swelling;

Underneath the grass-green sod
Soon maun be my dwelling.

BANKS OF NITH.

Tune" Robie Donna Gorach."

THE Thames flows proudly to the sea,
Where royal cities stately stand;
But sweeter flows the Nith to me,

Where Commons ance had high command:

When shall I see that honor'd land,
That winding stream I love so dear!
Must wayward Fortune's adverse hand
For ever, ever keep me here?

How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales,

Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom! How sweetly wind thy sloping dales,

Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom!

Tho' wandering, now, must be my doom,
Far from thy bonie banks and braes,
May there my latest hours consume,
Amang the friends of early days!

BANKS OF CREE.

HERE is the glen, and here the bower,
All underneath the birchen shade;
The village bell has told the hour,
O what can stay my lovely maid?

'Tis not Maria's whispering call; 'Tis but the balmy-breathing gale; Mixt with some warbler's dying fall, The dewy star of eve to hail.

It is Maria's voice I hear!

So calls the woodlark in the grove, His little faithful mate to cheer,

At once 'tis music-and 'tis love.

And art thou come! and art thou true! O welcome dear to love and me! And let us all our vows renew,

Along the flowery banks of Cree.