No More Learning

There is an old song and tune which has
often thrilled through my soul: I shall give you the verses on the
other sheet. Light be the turf on the breast of the heaven-inspired
poet who composed this glorious fragment. " "The following song," says
the poet, when he communicated it to George Thomson, "an old song of
the olden times, and which has never been in print, nor even in
manuscript, until I took it down from an old man's singing, is enough
to recommend any air. " These are strong words, but there can be no
doubt that, save for a line or two, we owe the song to no other
minstrel than "minstrel Burns. "]


I.

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!

II.

We twa hae run about the braes,
And pu't the gowans fine;
But we've wander'd mony a weary foot,
Sin' auld lang syne.

III.

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.

IV.

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere,
And gie's a hand o' thine;
And we'll take a right guid willie-waught,
For auld lang syne.

V.
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!

* * * * *




CCXI.

FAIR JEANY.

Tune--"_Saw ye my father? _"

[In September, 1793, this song, as well as several others, was
communicated to Thomson by Burns. "Of the poetry," he says, "I speak
with confidence: but the music is a business where I hint my ideas
with the utmost diffidence. "]


I.

Where are the joys I have met in the morning,
That danc'd to the lark's early song?
Where is the peace that awaited my wand'ring,
At evening the wild woods among?

II.

No more a-winding the course of yon river,
And marking sweet flow'rets so fair:
No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure,
But sorrow and sad sighing care.

III.

Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys,
And grim, surly winter is near?
No, no, the bees' humming round the gay roses,
Proclaim it the pride of the year.

IV.