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Ah! no; your fathers' names are there,
Memorials o' lang syne.
To win me frae these waefu' thoughts,
They took me to the town;
Where soon in ilka weel kend face,
I miss'd the youthfu' bloom.
At balls they pointed to a nymph,
Whom all declar'd divine;
But sure her mother's blushing face
Was fairer far lang syne.
Ye sons to comrades o my youth,
Forgive an auld man's spleen,
Wha, midst your gayest scenes, still mourne,
The days he ance has seen.
When time is past, and seasons fled,
Your hearts may feel like mine,
the sang will maist delight
That minds you o' lang syne
F I N I S
