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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 aught 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.

I think upon ;

My soul is ravish'd with delight

When you 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,

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'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.

It appeared as follows in the

Allan Ramsay also wrote a song under this title. “ Tea-Table Miscellany."

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

Though they return with scars?
These are the noble hero's lot,

Obtain'd in glorious wars.
Welcome, my Varo, to my breast,

Thy arms about me twine,
And make me once again as blest

As I was lang syne.

Methinks around us on each bough

A thousand Cupids play ;
Whilst through the groves I walk with you

Each object makes me gay.
Since your return the sun and moon

With brighter beams do shine;
Streams murmur soft notes while they run

As they did lang syne.

SPEAK ON, SPEAK THUS.

ALLAN RAMSAY, born Oct. 15, 1686, died Jan. 7, 1758. From the “ Gentle Shepherd.”

Air—" Wae's my heart that we should sunder."

SPEAK on, speak thus, and still my grief;

Hold up a heart that's sinkin'under
These fears that soon will want relief

When Pate must from his Peggy sunder.

A gentler face and silk attire,

A lady rich in beauty's blossom,
Alake, poor me will now conspire

To steal thee from thy Peggy's bosom.
No more the shepherd who excell'd

The rest, whose wit made them to wonder,
Shall now his Peggy's praises tell ;-

Oh, I can die, but never sunder!
Ye meadows where we often stray'd,

Ye banks where we were wont to wander,
Sweet-scented rocks round which we play'd,
You'll lose your sweets when we're asunder.

Again, ah, shall I never creep

Around the knowe, with silent duty,
Kindly to watch thee while asleep,
And wonder at thy manly beauty?

Hear, heaven, while solemnly I

Vow,

Though thou shouldst prove a wand'ring lover,
Through life to thee I shall prove true,

Nor be a wife to any other.

I'LL NEVER LEAVE THEE.

ALLAN RAMSAY. From the "Tea-Table Miscellany."

JOHNNY.

THOUGH for seven years and mair honour should reave me To fields where cannons rair, thou needsna grieve thee; For deep in my spirit thy sweets are indented,

And love shall preserve aye what love has imprented.

Leave thee, leave thee! I'll never leave thee,

Gang the warld as it will, dearest, believe me!

NELLY.

O Johnny, I'm jealous, whene'er ye discover

My sentiments yielding, ye'll turn a loose rover ;
An' nought in the world would vex my heart sairer,
If you prove inconstant, and fancy ane fairer.
Grieve me, grieve me, oh, it wad grieve me,
A' the long night and day, if you deceive me!

JOHNNY.

My Nelly, let never sic fancies oppress ye;
For while my blood's warm I'll kindly caress ye:
Your saft blooming beauties first kindled love's fire,
Your virtue and wit mak' it aye flame the higher.
Leave thee, leave thee! I'll never leave thee,
Gang the warld as it will, dearest, believe me!

NELLY.

Then, Johnny, I frankly this minute allow ye
To think me your mistress, for love gars me trow ye ;
And gin ye prove false, to yoursel' be it said then,
Ye win but sma' honour to wrang a puir maiden.
Reave me, reave me, oh, it would reave me
Of my rest night and day, if you deceive me!

JOHNNY.

Bid ice-shogles hammer red gauds on the studdy,
And fair summer mornings nae mair appear ruddy;
Bid Britons think ae gate, and when they obey thee,
But never till that time, believe I'll betray thee.
Leave thee, leave thee! I'll never leave thee;
The starns shall gae withershins ere I deceive thee.

LOCHABER.

ALLAN RAMSAY.

FAREWELL to Lochaber, farewell to my Jean,
Where heartsome wi' her I ha'e mony a day been ;
To Lochaber no more, to Lochaber no more,

We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more!
These tears that I shed, they're a' for my dear,
And no for the dangers attending on weir;
Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore,
Maybe to return to Lochaber no more!

Though hurricanes rise, though rise every wind,
No tempest can equal the storm in my mind;
Though loudest of thunders on louder waves roar,
That's naething like leavin' my love on the shore.

To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pain'd;
But by ease that's inglorious no fame can be gain'd;
And beauty and love 's the reward of the brave,
And I maun deserve it before I can crave.

Then glory, my Jeanie, maun plead my excuse;
Since honour commands me, how can I refuse?
Without it, I ne'er can have merit for thee;
And losing thy favour, I'd better not be.
I gae then, my lass, to win honour and fame;
And if I should chance to come glorious hame,
I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er,

And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more.

The exquisite melody to which this song is sung has rendered it a general favourite. Its effect upon the mind of Highlanders in a foreign land, or in emigration, is sometimes painful, and has been known to melt the roughest and rudest of men to tears. The song itself, as a literary composition, is of little or no merit. It first appeared in the "Tea-Table Miscellany," 1724. The air was originally entitled "King James's march to Ireland."

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O Bessie Bell and Mary Gray,
They were twa bonnie lasses;

They biggit a bower on yon burn-brae,

And theekit it ower wi' rashes.

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