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The lovely lass of Inverness,
Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;
For e'en to morn she cries, 'Alas!'

the saut tear blin's her e'e:

'Drumossie moor-Drumossie day-
A waefu' day it was to me!
For there I lost my father dear,
My father dear, and brethren three.

Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay,
Their graves are growing green to see:
And by them lies the dearest lad
That ever blest a woman's e'e!

Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord,
A bluidy man I trow thou be;
For mony a heart thou hast made sair
That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee!


O, my luv is like a red, red rose,

That's newly sprung in June: O, my luv is like the melodie

That's sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonie lass,

So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,

Till a' the seas gang dry:

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,

And the rocks melt wi' the sun; And will luve thee still, my dear,

While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only luve!

And fare thee weel awhile! And I will come again, my luve,

Tho' it were ten thousand mile!


Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

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

And auld lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,

For auld lang syne!

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp,

And surely I'll be mine;
And we'll take 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 wander'd monie a weary fit

Sin' auld lang syne.

We twa hae paidl'd in the burn,

Frae morning sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roar'd

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!


Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes !
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise!
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream!

Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds through the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair!

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,
Far marked with the courses of clear winding rills !
There daily I wander as noon rises high,
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow!
There oft, as mild evening weeps over the lea,
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides !
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear wave!

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes !
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays!
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream!


O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut,

And Rob and Allan cam to see;
Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night,

Ye wad na found in Christendie.

We are na fou, we're nae that fou,

But just a drappie in our e'e;
The cock may craw, the day may daw,

And ay we'll taste the barley bree!

Here are we met, three merry boys,

Three merry boys, I trow, are we; And mony a night we've merry been,

And mony mae we hope to be!

It is the moon, I ken her horn,

That’s blinkin in the lift sae hie;
She shines sae bright to wyle us hame,

But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee!

Wha first shall rise to gang awa,

A cuckold, coward loun is he! Wha first beside his chair shall fa',

He is the King amang us three!


Thou lingering star, with lessening ray,

That lov'st to greet the early morn, 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? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

That sacred hour can I forget,

Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met

To live one day of parting love ? Eternity cannot efface

Those records dear of transports past, Thy image at our ist en ce

Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,

O’erhung with wild woods, thickening green; The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar

Twined amorous round the raptured scene: The flowers sprang wanton to be pressed,

The birds sang love on every spray, Till too, too soon the glowing west

Proclaimed the speed of winged day. Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,

And fondly broods with miser care! Time but th' impression stronger makes,

As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary, dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?


Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full is this buke.


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).

0 Tam, had'st thou but been sae wise As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice!

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