7
Those days that follow'd me afar,
Those happy days of mine;
Which made me think the joys at hand
Were naething to lang syne.
My ivied tow'rs now met my een,
Where minstrels us'd to blaw,
Nae friend stept out wi' open arms—
Nae weel kend face I saw—
Till Donald totter'd to the door,
Whom I left in his prime;
und grat to see the lad come hame
He bore about lang syne.
I ran to ilka weel kend place,
In hopes to find friends there;
I saw where mony a ane had set,
I hung on mony a chair;
Till soft remembrance threw a veil
Across these een o' mine;
I shut the door, and sobb'd aloud,
To think on auld langsyne.
A new sprung race o' motly kind
Would now their welcome pay,
Wha shudder'd at my gothic wa's,
And wish'd my groves away;
Cut down these gloomy trees, they cried;
Lay low yon mournful pine,—
