3
And 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 av/ay;
‘Cut down these gloomy trees,’ they cried
‘Lay low yon mournful pine,’—
Ah! no; your fathers’ names are there,
Memorials o’ lang sync.
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 alll declar’d divine;
But cure her mother’s blushing face
Was fairer far lang syne.
