4
I'll be content, tho legs should fail,
To play fareweel to whisky, O,
But still I think on auld langsyne,
When Paradise our friends did tyne,
Because something ran in their min',
Forbid, like Highland whisky, O.
Come a' ye powers o' Music, come!
I find my heart grows unco glum,
My fiddle-strings will not play bum,
To say fareweel to whisky, O.
I'll tak my fiddle in my hand,
And screw the strings up while the'll stand,
To mak a lamentation grand.
On good auld Highland whisky, O.
THE BURN SIDE.
We'll meet beside the dusky glen, on yon burn side,
Where the bushes form a cozie den, on yon burn side;
Though the broomy knowes be green,
Yet there we may be seen;
But we'll meet—we'll meet, at e'en, down by yon burn side.
I'll lead thee to the birken bower, on yon burn side,
Sae sweetly wove wi' woodbine flower, on yon burn side—
There the busy prying eye
Ne'er disturbs the lover's joy,
