The Book of Scottish Song/Old Long Syne

Old Long Syne.

[The following are the earliest known verses to the old air of "Auld Lang Syne." They are from Watson's collection of Scots Poems, part III., published in 1716. The words "Old Long Syne," used here throughout, sound ludicrously to the ear accustomed to the Doric "Auld Lang Syne."]

PART FIRST.

Should old acquaintance be forgot,
And never thought upon,
The flames of love extinguished,
And freely past and gone?
Is thy kind heart now grown so cold
In that loving breast of thine,
That thou canst never once reflect
On old long syne?

Where are thy protestations,
Thy vows, and oaths, my dear,
Thou mad'st to me and I to thee,
In register yet clear?
Is faith and truth so violate
To th' immortal gods divine,
That thou canst never once reflect
On old long syne?

Is't Cupid's fears, or frosty cares,
That makes thy spirits decay?
Or is't some object of more worth
That's stolen thy heart away?
Or some desert makes thee neglect
Him, so much once was thine,
That thou canst never once reflect
On old long syne?

Is't worldly cares, so desperate,
That makes thee to despair?
Is't that makes thee exasperate,
And makes thee to forbear?
If thou of that were free as I,
Thou surely should be mine;
If this were true, we should renew
Kind old long syne.

But since that nothing can prevail,
And all hope is in vain,
From these dejected eyes of mine
Still showers of tears shall rain:
And though thou hast me now forgot,
Yet I'll continue thine,
And ne'er forget for to reflect
On old long syne.

If e'er I have a house, my dear,
That truly is call'd mine,
And can afford but country cheer,
Or ought that's good therein;
Though thou wert rebel to the king,
And beat with wind and rain,
Assure thyself of welcome, love,
For old long syne.

PART SECOND.

My soul is ravish'd with delight
When you I think upon;
All griefs and sorrows take their flight,
And hastily are gone;
The fair resemblance of your face
So fills this breast of mine,
No fate nor force can it displace,
For old long syne.

Since thoughts of you do banish grief,
When I'm from you removed;
And if in them I find relief,
When with sad cares I'm moved,
How doth your presence me affect
With ecstasies divine,
Especially when I reflect
On old long syne.

Since thou hast robb'd me of my heart,
By those resistless powers
Which Madam Nature doth impart
To those fair eyes of yours,
With honour it doth not consist
To hold a slave in pyne;
Pray let your rigour, then, desist,
For old long syne.

'Tis not my freedom I do crave,
By deprecating pains;
Sure, liberty he would not have
Who glories in his chains:
But this I wish—the gods would move
That noble soul of thine
To pity, if thou canst not love,
For old long syne.

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