Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads, How cheeks brent red wi' shame, Whene'er the schule-weans laughin' said, We cleek'd thegither hame? And mind ye o' the Saturdays (The schule then skail't at noon), When we ran aff to speel the braesThe broomy braes o' June? Oh, mind ye, luve, how aft we left To wander by the green burnside, The flowers burst round our feet, The throssil whusslit in the wud, And on the knowe abune the burn O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Did I but ken your heart still dreamed O' bygane days and me! WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. AULD LANG SYNE. 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, We twa hae run about the braes, But we've wandered mony a weary foot, Sin' auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, But seas between us braid hae roared, Sin' auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, For auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup of kindness yet, SONG FROM JASON. I KNOW a little garden close And though within it no birds sing, And though no pillared house is there, And though the apple-boughs are bare Of fruit and blossom, would to God Her feet upon the green grass trod, And I beheld them as before. There comes a murmur from the shore, And in the place two fair streams are, Drawn from the purple hills afar, Drawn down unto the restless sea; The hills whose flowers ne'er fed the bee, The shore no ship has ever seen, Still beaten by the billows green, Whose murmur comes unceasingly Unto the place for which I cry. For which I cry both day and night, For which I let slip all delight, That maketh me both deaf and blind, Careless to win, unskilled to find, And quick to lose what all men seek. Yet tottering as I am and weak, Still have I left a little breath To seek within the jaws of death An entrance to that happy place, To seek the unforgotten face Once seen, once kissed, once reft from me Anigh the murmuring of the sea. WILLIAM MORRIS. OF A' THE AIRTS. OF a' the airts the wind can blaw There wild woods grow, and rivers row, Wi' mony a hill between; Baith day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean. I see her in the dewy flowers Sae lovely fresh and fair, I hear her voice in ilka bird Wi' music charm the air: |