The Evening Shade.
[Willison Glass.—Tune "Andro and his cutty gun."]
Blythe, blythe, an' happy are we,
Cauld care is flegg'd awa';
This is but ae night o' our lives,
An' wha wou'd grudge tho' it were twa.
The ev'ning shade around is spread,
The chilling tempest sweeps the sky;
We're kindly met, an' warmly set,
And streams o' nappy rinnin' by.
Blythe, &c.
While gettin' fou, we're great, I trow,
We scorn misfortune's greatest bangs;
The magic bowl can lift the soul
Aboon the world and a' its wrangs.
Blythe, &c.
The days o' man are but a span,
This mortal life a passing dream,
Nought to illume the dreary gloom
Save love an' friendship's sacred gleam,
Blythe, &c.
Then toom your glass to my sweet lass,
And neist we'll turn it o'er to thine:
The glowin' breast that loo's them best
Shall dearest ever be to mine.
Blythe, &c.
An' here's to you, my friend sae true,
May discord ne'er a feeling wound!
An' shou'd we flyte, ne'er harbour spite,
But in a bowl be't quickly drown'd.
Blythe, &c.
Now rap an' ring, an' gar them bring
The biggest stoupfu' yet we've seen:
Why should we part, when hand and heart
At ilka bumper grows mair keen?
Blythe, &c.