Oft-teymes I think, by mem'ry led,
What curious arguments we've hed,
Or crack'd away, till gaun to bed

Was queyte forgitten,

An' a' the lave, by sleep owresped,

Were round us sittin'.

Someteymes i'th' winter-neets, when dark,
We'd into th' Ladies' Diaries yark,

There, wi' charade or rebus stark,

We'd hev a bout,

An' monie a teyme we'd puzzlin' wark

To find them out.

Someteymes we'd politics in han’—
The king, the laws, the reets o' man,
The parish clash, the empire's ban',

Just as it chanc'd;

Each art an' science now an' than

By turns advanc'd.

For subjects we but seldom sought,
They gaily oft were leyle or nought,
Ne'er ak, they ay amusement brought,

An' that was plenty ;

We freely spak' whate'er we thought

Without being stenty.

But shaugh! what if these teymes be geane,

need we greane

An' distance parts us,
We're nowther on us left our leane,

What need o' grievin'?

We now an' then can meet agean

Wheyle we're beath leevin'.

Ay, lad, be seer, whene'er I can,
I'll come an' see you now an' than,
To hear an' see how matters stan'

'Mang th' Brough-seyde fwoks;

Or what new clish-ma-claver's gaun,

Or jibes or jwokes.

For still't mun rather ease my meynde-
That is but owre dispos'd to tweyne-
To ruminate on auld lang seyne,—

That happy season,

For which thro' th' lave o' leyfe we peyne,

An' guid's our reason.

Yes, man! there's pleasure in recitin'
Concerns that yence were sae invitin';

An' even now I feel delight in,

By fair reflection,

The varra things which here I'm writin'

Frae recollection.

Fell memory, leyke a mirror truę,
Each youthful pastime hauds to view,
An' we wi' eagerness pursue

The fond delusion,

Rangin' the pleasin' lab'rynth thro'

In weyld confusion.

The weel-kent haunts I visit keen,
Or, saunt'rin', pace the paddled green,
Where monie a festive bout has been

An' jocund turn.

Ah, man! the days that we hev seen

Mun ne'er return.

Thro' th' lwonely kirk-garth as I stray,
Surroundin' heaps o' kindred clay

In dumb monition seem to say,

Wi' ghaist-leyke ca',—

"Stop, neybor, an' awhile survey

The end of a'."

Here my yence gay companions sleep;
Or anters in yon mouldering heap
Some lovelier female form I weep,

An' lang may mourn ;

Or wi' the briny tribute steep

A parent's urn.

But, fancy, quit this mournfu' scene,
Sec objects nobbit beat in spleen,
An' nae occasion should be gien

To melancholy :

Life's joys are far owre few, I ween,

T'excuse this folly.

No! let's be happy wheyle we may,
As life's but leyke a winter day,
An' hour on hour flees fast away

To reel of t'rest on't;

Let us, sen we've nit lang to stay,

Be meakin't' best on't.

If fortune keyndly shall supply
A' our desires, let us enjoy
Her welcome gifts, nor thrust a-jy

The gracious deed;

Lest unassissted we apply

In pinchin' need.

But if beneath misfortune's han'
We plunge, an' feel her smartin' wan',

Let us with fortitude withstan'

The lash extended;

As a' things come by heaven's comman',

An' whea can mend it?

Still be your lot that happy state,
Unkent by a' th' extremes of fate
But peace and plenty on you wait

Clean thro' your life;

An' may nae skeath, at onie rate,

Mislear your wife.

Lang be your heart and happins heale;
Ne'er may your constitution geale;
But sups o' drink and guid lythe keale

Cheer up each day,

As lang as th' beck down Seggin Deale

Shall wind its way.

But now, my friend, guid evening to ye,
It's turning leate, sae peace be wi' ye;
I've nought, except my prayers, to gie ye,
Ye ken me true;

I'll some day soon pauk owre and see ye,
Till then adieu.

Wigton, Jan. 1st, 1805.

AULD LANG SEYNE.

Whilst some the soldier's deeds emblaze,
An' talk of sieges and campaigns;

Or some the wily statesman praise

Whea hauds of government the reins;