AULD LANG SYNE.

ROBERT BURNS.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to min'?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o' lang syne?
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 wandered mony a weary foot,

Sin auld lang syne.

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.

And here's a hand, my trusty fere,

And gie's a haud o' thine;

And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught,

For 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.

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,

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

["Auld Lang Syne," Burns introduced to George Thomson and Mrs. Dunlop, as the work of an old heaven-inspired poet; which he (Burns) had taken down from an old man's singing. The starting note of the song is old, of the rest the author is well known.]

FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT.

ROBERT BURNS.

Is there, for honest poverty,
That hangs his head, and a' that?
The coward-slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that,

Our toils obscure and a' that,
The rank is but the guinea stamp ;
The man's the gowd for a' that.

What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin-grey, and a' that;

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that.

For a' that, and a' that,

Their tinsel show, and a' that;

The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie ca'd a lord,

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,

He's but a coof for a' that:

For a' that, and a' that,

His riband, star, and a' that,
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a' that.

A King can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might,
Guid faith he mauna fa' that!
For a' that, and a' that,

Their dignities, and a' that,
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,
Are higher ranks than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it will for a' that,

That sense and worth o'er a' the earth,

May bear the gree, and a' that.

For a' that, and a' that,

Its coming yet, for a' that,

That man to man, the warld o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.

["A great critic (Aikin) on song, says, that love and wine are the exclusive themes for song-writing. The 'above' is on neither subject, and consequently is no song; but will be allowed, I think, to be two or three pretty good prose thoughts, inverted into rhyme."BURNS.

So the poet speaks of this noble and manly lyric.]

DUNCAN GRAY.

ROBERT BURNS.

Duncan Gray cam here to woo,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,

On blythe yule night when we were fou,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Maggie coost her head fu' high,
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't;
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,
Grat his een baith bleer't and blin',
Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn;

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Time and chance are but a tide,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't;
Slighted love is sair to bide,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,

For a haughty hizzie die?

She may gae to-France for me!

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

How it comes let doctors tell ;
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
Meg grew sick-as he grew heal,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Something in her bosom wrings,
For relief a sigh she brings ;

And O, her een, they spak sic things!
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan was a lad o' grace,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't;
Maggie's was a piteous case,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan could na be her death,
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath;
Now they're crouse and canty baith,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

["Duncan Gray is that kind of light-horse gallop of an air, which precludes sentiment."-Burns.

The old words of this song are unworthy of preservation, Burns' first copy of the song is printed in the poet's works by Cunningham, vol. iv. p. 87.]

THE POOR AND HONEST SODGER.

ROBERT BURNS.

When wild war's deadly blast was blawn,
And gentle peace returning,

Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless,
And mony a widow mourning:
I left the lines and tented field,
Where lang I'd been a lodger,
My humble knapsack a' my wealth,
A poor and honest sodger.