But now our joys are fled On winter blasts awa; But my white pow, nae kindly thowe And nights o' sleepless pain; Thou golden time o' youthful prime, Why com'st thou not again? JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. JOAN 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 AULD LANG SYNE. SHOULD auld acquaintance be forgot, 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, But we've wander'd monie a weary foot, For auld, &c. We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, But seas between us braid hae roar'd, Sin' auld lang syne. For auld, &c And here'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. For auld, &c. And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld, &c. HOPELESS LOVE. TUNE "Liggeram Cosh." BLITHE hae I been on yon hill, Now nae longer sport and play, Lesley is sae fair and coy, Care and anguish seize me. Heavy, heavy, is the task, Hopeless love declaring: Trembling, I dow nocht but glow'r, Sighing, dumb, despairing! If she winna ease the thraws, 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 How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales, Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom! How sweetly wind thy sloping dales, Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom Tho' wand'ring now, must be my doom, BANKS OF CREE. HERE is the glen, and here the bow'r, "Tis not Maria's whisp'ring call; It is Maria's voice I hear! So calls the wood-lark, in the grove, His little faithful mate to cheer: At once 'tis music and 'tis love. And art thou come? and art thou true? CASTLE GORDON STREAMS that glide in orient plains, Glowing here on golden sands, |