How long I have liv'd--but how much liv'd in vain, How little of life's scanty span may remain, What aspects old Time in his progress has worn, What ties cruel Fate, in my bosom has torn.
How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain'd! And downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd, how pain'd! Life is not worth having with all it can give-- For something beyond it poor man sure must live.
Louis, what reck I by thee, Or Geordie on his ocean? Dyvor, beggar louns to me, I reign in Jeanie's bosom!
Let her crown my love her law, And in her breast enthrone me, Kings and nations--swith awa'! Reif randies, I disown ye!
It is na, Jean, thy bonie face, Nor shape that I admire; Altho' thy beauty and thy grace Might weel awauk desire.
Something, in ilka part o' thee, To praise, to love, I find, But dear as is thy form to me, Still dearer is thy mind.
Nae mair ungenerous wish I hae, Nor stronger in my breast, Than, if I canna make thee sae, At least to see thee blest.
Content am I, if heaven shall give But happiness, to thee; And as wi' thee I'd wish to live, For thee I'd bear to die.
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And auld lang syne!
Chorus.--For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne. We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne.
And surely ye'll be your pint stowp! And surely I'll be mine! And we'll tak a cup o'kindness yet, For auld lang syne. For auld, &c.
We twa hae run about the braes, And pou'd the gowans fine; But we've wander'd mony a weary fit, Sin' auld lang syne. For auld, &c.
We twa hae paidl'd in the burn, Frae morning sun till dine; But seas between us braid hae roar'd Sin' auld lang syne. For auld, &c.
And there's a hand, my trusty fere! And gie's a hand o' thine! And we'll tak a right gude-willie waught, For auld lang syne. For auld, &c.
Go, fetch to me a pint o' wine, And fill it in a silver tassie; That I may drink before I go, A service to my bonie lassie. The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith; Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the Ferry; The ship rides by the Berwick-law, And I maun leave my bonie Mary.
The trumpets sound, the banners fly, The glittering spears are ranked ready: The shouts o' war are heard afar, The battle closes deep and bloody; It's not the roar o' sea or shore, Wad mak me langer wish to tarry! Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar-- It's leaving thee, my bonie Mary!