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

We twa hae run about the braes,

And pu'd the gowans fine;

But we've wandered monie a weary foot,

Sin' auld lang syne.

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn,

Frae morning sun till dine;

But seas between us braid hae roared,

Sin' auld lang syne.

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere

And gie's a hand o' thine;

daisies

companion

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

For auld lang syne.

And surely you'll be your pint-stoup,

flagon

And surely I'll be mine;

And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet
For auld lang syne.1

1 Burns came to indulge in little mystifications respecting his songs. Though in a letter to Mrs. Dunlop he speaks of Auld Lang Syne as an old fragment, and afterwards communicated it to George Thomson, with an expression of selfcongratulation on having been so fortunate as to recover it from an old man's singing, the second and third verses -those expressing the recollections of youth, and certainly the finest of the set- are by himself. So also of Go fetch to me a pint of wine, he afterwards acknowledged that only the first

A

MY BONNY MARY.

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine,
And fill it in a silver tassie;
That I may drink before I go,

A service to my bonny lassie.
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith,

cup

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the Ferry; The ship rides by the Berwick-Law,1

And I maun leave my bonny Mary.

The trumpets sound, the banners fly,

The glittering spears are rankèd ready;

verse (four lines) was old, the rest his own. The old verse was probably the same with one which occurs near the close of a homely ballad, printed in Hogg and Motherwell's edition of Burns, as preserved by Mr. Peter Buchan, who further communicates that the ballad was composed in 1636, by Alexander Lesly of Edin, on Doveran side, grandfather to the celebrated Archbishop Sharpe:·

"Ye'll bring me here a pint of wine,

A server and a silver tassie,
That I may drink, before I gang,

A health to my ain bonny lassie."

1 North Berwick-Law, a conical hill near the shore of the Firth of Forth, very conspicuous at Edinburgh, from which it is distant about twenty miles.

The shouts o' war are heard afar,

The battle closes thick and bloody.
But it's not the roar o' sea or shore

Wad make me langer wish to tarry;
Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar
It's leaving thee, my bonny Mary.

LINES WRITTEN IN FRIARS' CARSE

HERMITAGE.

Extended Copy.

THOU whom chance may hither lead,

Be thou clad in russet weed,

Be thou deckt in silken stole,

Grave these counsels on thy soul.

Life is but a day at most,

Sprung from night, in darkness lost;
Hope not sunshine every hour,
Fear not clouds will always lower.

1

1 In the shorter copy, an additional couplet is here in

As Youth and Love with sprightly dance,
Beneath thy morning-star advance,
Pleasure with her siren air

May delude the thoughtless pair;
Let Prudence bless Enjoyment's cup,
Then raptured sip, and sip it up.

As thy day grows warm and high,
Life's meridian flaming nigh,

Dost thou spurn the humble vale?

Life's proud summits wouldst thou scale?
Check thy climbing step, elate,

Evils lurk in felon wait:
Dangers, eagle-pinioned, bold,

Soar around each cliffy hold,

While cheerful peace, with linnet song,

Chants the lowly dells among.

As the shades of evening close,
Beck'ning thee to long repose,
As life itself becomes disease,
Seek the chimney-nook of ease :
There ruminate with sober thought,

On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought,
And teach the sportive younkers round,
Saws of experience, sage and sound.
Say, man's true genuine estimate,
The grand criterion of his fate,
Is not art thou high or low?

Did thy fortune ebb or flow? 1
Did many talents gild thy span?
Or frugal Nature grudge thee one?
Tell them, and press it on their mind,
As thou thyself must shortly find,
The smile or frown of awful Heaven
To virtue or to vice is given.
Say, to be just, and kind, and wise,
There solid self-enjoyment lies;
That foolish, selfish, faithless ways
Lead to be wretched, vile, and base.

Thus resigned and quiet, creep
To the bed of lasting sleep;

Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake,
Night, where dawn shall never break,
Till future life, future no more,
To light and joy the good restore,
To light and joy unknown before.

Stranger, go! Heaven be thy guide!
Quod the Bedesman of Nithside! 2

1 Variation

Say, man's true genuine estimate
The grand criterion of their fate,
The important query of their state,
Is not-art thou high or low?
Did thy fortune ebb or flow?
Wast thou cottager or king,

Peer or peasant? - -no such thing!
Did many talents, etc.

2 This extended copy of the lines for Friars' Carse Hermit