one adopted from an old Lowland melody, called "I fee'd a lad at Michaelmas," and now entitled in Gow's collection of Reels, "Sir Alexander Don's Strathspey."]
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to min'?
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 yet,
For auld lang syne.
We twa ha'e run about the braes,
And pu'd the gowans fine;
But we've wander'd mony a weary fit,
Sin' auld lang syne.
We twa ha'e paid'lt in the burn,
Frae morning sun till dine;
But seas between us braid ha'e roar'd,
Sin' auld lang syne.
And there's a hand, my trusty frien',
And gi'e's a haud o' thine;
And we'll tak' a richt gude-willie waught,
For auld lang syne.
And surely ye'll be your pint-stoup,
And surely I'll be mine;
And we'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
The Campbells are coming.
[The following words are given in Johnson's museum to the well-known tune of "The Campbells are coming." From the mention of Lochleven, they are absurdly supposed by some to belong to the days of Queen Mary's imprisonment there. They were with much greater probability composed when "the great Argyle and a' his men" marched, northward to suppress the insurrection of 1715.]
The Campbells are coming, O-ho, O-ho!
The Campbells are coming, O-ho!
The Campbells are coming to bonnie Lochleven!
The Campbells are coming, O-ho, O-ho!
Upon the Lomonds I lay, I lay;
Upon the Lomonds I lay;
I lookit doun to bonnie Lochleven,
And saw three perches play.
The Campbells are coming, &c.
Great Argyle he goes before
He makes the cannons and guns to roar;
With sound of trumpet, pipe, and drum;
The Campbells are coming, O-ho, O-ho!
The Campbells they are a' in arms,
Their loyal faith and truth to show,
With banners rattling in the wind;
The Campbells are coming, O-ho, O-ho!
Tam o' the Balloch.
[Written by Hugh Ainslie to the tune of "The Campbells are coming."]
In the Nick o' the Balloch lived Muirland Tam,
Weel stentit wi' brochan and braxie-ham;
A breist like a buird, and a back like a door,
And a wapping wame that hung down afore.
But what's come ower ye, Muirland Tam?
For your leg's now grown like a wheel-barrow tram;
Your e'e it's faun in—your nose it's faun out,
And the skin o' your cheek's like a dirty clout.
O ance, like a yaud, ye spankit the bent,
Wi' a fecket sae fu', and a stocking sae stent,
The strength o' a stot—the wecht o' a cow;
Now, Tammy, my man, ye're grown like a grow.
I mind sin' the blink o' a canty quean
Could watered your mou and lichtit your een;
Now ye leuk like a yowe, when ye should be a ram;
O what can be wrang wi' ye, Muirland Tam?
Has some dowg o' the yirth set your gear abreed?
Ha'e they broken your heart or broken your head?
Ha'e they rackit wi' rungs or kittled wi' steel?
Or, Tammy, my man, ha'e ye seen the deil?
Wha ance was your match at a stoup and a tale?
Wi' a voice like a sea, and a drouth like a whale?
Now ye peep like a powt; ye glumph and ye gaunt;
Oh, Tammy, my man, are ye turned a saunt?
