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The braes ascend like lofty wa's,
The foaming stream deep roaring fa's,
O'er-hung wi' fragrant spreading shaws,

The Birks of Aberfeldy.

The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers, White o'er the linns the burnie pours, And, rising, weets wi' misty showers

The Birks of Aberfeldy.

Let fortune's gifts at random flee,
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me,
Supremely blest wi' love and thee,

In the Birks of Aberfeldy.


Tune— Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey.'

Of a the airts the wind can blaw,

I dearly like the west,
For there the bonie lassie lives,

The lassie I lo'e best ;
There wild woods grow, and rivers row,

And mony a hill between;
By day and night my fancy's flight

Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,

I see her sweet and fair ;
I hear her in the tunefu' birds,

I hear her charm the air :
There's not a bonie flower that springs

By fountain, shaw', or green ;
There's not a bonie bird that sings,

But minds me o' my Jean.

d woocha


Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o' lang syne ?

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yel,

For auld lang syne.

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp,

And surely I'll be mine ;
And we'll tak a cup of kindness yet
For auld lang syne.

For auld, &c.

We twa hae run about the braes,

And pu'd the gowans fine;
But we've wander'd mony a weary foot
Sin' auld lang syne.

For auld, &c.

We twa hae paidl'd i' the burn,

From morning sun till dine ;
But seas between us braid hae roar'd
Sin' auld lang syne.

For auld, &c

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere',

And gie 's a hand o' thine ; And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught, For auld lang syne.

For auld, &c.



John Anderson, my jo, John,

When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,

Your bonie brow was brent';
But now your brow is beld, John,

Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessings on your frosty pow,

John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John,

We clamb the hill thegither ;
And monie a canty day, John,

We've had wi' ane anither :
Now we maun totter down, John,

But hand in hand we'll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,

John Anderson, my jo.


Tune — The mucking o' Geordie's Byre.'
My heart is a breaking, dear Tittie,

Some counsel unto me come len',
To anger them a' is a pity ;

But what will I do wi’ Tam Glen?
I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fellow,

In poortith? I might mak a fen's;
What care I in riches to wallow,

If I maunna marry Tam Glen?
There's Lowrie the laird o’ Dumeller,

'Guid-day to you,'-- brute! he comes ben: He brags and he blaws o' his siller ;

But when will he dance like Tam Glen?




s make a shift.

My minnie does constantly deave' me,

And bids me beware o' young men ; They flatter, she says, to deceive me;

But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen?

My daddie says, gin I 'll forsake him,

He'll gie me gude hunder marks ten : But, if it's ordained I maun take him,

O wha will I get but Tam Glen? Yestreen at the Valentine's dealing,

My heart to my mou gied a steno: For thrice I drew ane without failing,

And thrice it was written, Tam Glen. The last Halloween I was waukin 3

My droukit * sark-sleeve, as ye ken, His likeness cam up the house staukin,

And the very grey breeks o' Tam Glen I Come counsel, dear Tittie, don't tarry ;

I 'll gie ye my bonie black hen, Gif ye will advise me to marry

The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen.

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O, Willie brewed a peck o' maut,

And Rob and Allan cam to see ;
Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night,

Ye wad na found in Christendie.

We are na fou, we're no that fou,

But just a drappie in our ee ;
The cock may craw, the day may daw,
And ay we 'll taste the barley bree.

1 deafen.

i leap.

3 watching


Here are we met, three merry boys,

Three merry boys, I trow, are we; And mony a night we've merry been, And mony mae we hope to be!

We are na fou, &c.

It is the moon, I ken her horn,

That's blinkin in the lift sae hie ;
She shines sae bright to wyle us hame,
But by my sooth she'll wait a wee !

We are na fou, &c.

Wha first shall rise to gang awa,

A cuckold, coward loun is he! Wha first beside his chair shall fa', He is the King among us three !

We are na fou, &c.


Tune-Miss Forbes' Farewell to Banff.'

Thou ling’ring star, with less'ning ray,

That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day

My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ?

Hear'st thou the grcans that rend his breast?

That sacred hour can I forget,

Can I forget the hallow'd grove, Where by the winding Avr we met,

To live one day of parting love ! Eternity will not efface

Those records dear of transports past ; Thy image at our last embrace ;

Ah! little thought we 'twas our last !

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