Here Holy Willie’s sair worn clay Taks up its last abode; His saul has ta’en some other way, I fear, the left—hand road. Stop! there he is, as sur’s a gun,

Tune —“Laggan Burn.” Here’s to thy health, my bonie las… Gude nicht and joy be wi’ thee; I’ll come nae mair to thy bower—do… To tell thee that I lo’e thee.

AMONG the heathy hills and ragge… The roaring Fyers pours his mossy… Till full he dashes on the rocky m… Where, thro’ a shapeless breach, h… As high in air the bursting torren…

There was three kings unto the eas… Three kings both great and high, And they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn should die. They took a plough and plough’d hi…

Is there for honesty poverty That hings his head, an’ a’ that; The coward slave - we pass him by, We dare be poor for a’ that! For a’ that, an’ a’ that,

Ye flowery banks o’ bonie Doon, How can ye blume sae fair? How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae fu’ o’ care? Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonie…

Loud blaw the frosty breezes, The snaws the mountains cover; Like winter on me seizes Since my young Highland rover Far wanders nations over.

Blythe hae I been on yon hill, As the lambs before me; Careless ilka thought and free, As the breeze flew o’er me: Now nae langer sport and play,

O were I on Parnassus hill; Or had o’ Helicon my fill; That I might catch poetic skill, To sing how dear I love thee. But Nith maun be my Muses well,

O, were my love yon lilac fair Wi’ purple blossoms to the spring, And I a bird to shelter there, When wearied on my little wing. How I wad mourn when it was torn

Here’s a health to them that’s awa… Here’s a health to them that’s awa And wha winna wish guid luck to ou… May never guid luck be their fa’! It’s guid to be merry and wise,

AE day, as Death, that gruesome c… Was driving to the tither warl’ A mixtie-maxtie motley squad, And mony a guilt-bespotted lad— Black gowns of each denomination,

Here awa’, there awa’, wandering,… Here awa’, there awa’, haud awa’ h… Come to my bosom, my ae only deary… Tell me thou bring’st me my Willi… Loud tho’ the winter blew cauld on…

THE GLOOMY night is gath’ring… Loud roars the wild, inconstant bl… Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, I see it driving o’er the plain; The hunter now has left the moor.