An’ monie a famish teale could tell

O’ upturns duin i’ auld lang seyne.

“When vile moss-troopers, bworder bred,

To rive and pillage flock’d to arms,

By waur than that-a-donnet led,

Bouz’d into Cumberland i’ swarms:

Our kye, our owsen, off they druive;

Our gear, our graith, our naigs, our sweyne;

An’ monie a lass, her luckless luive,

Was left to wail for auld lang seyne.

Yence on a time a hangrell gang

Com’ with a bensil owre the sea,

Wheyle flocks an’ herds they gar’d them spang,

An’ put o’t country in a bree;

Up a dark lonnin’ fast they rode,

Thinking to shelter their deseyne,

Hoping their fit-hauld to meak guid,

As monie a teyme they’d duin lang seyne.

Kemp Dobbie, as they canterin’ com,

First spy’t-them”; but quo’ he, “Ne’er ak,

Divent be flait o’ them, lad Tom,

But let’s cower down i’ this deyke-back”.

Sae said, an’ humly cowering sat,

Up brouc’d the taistrels in a leyne

Till reet fornenst them, up they gat

An’ rwoar’d, “Now, lads, for auld land seyne”.

Back, helter-skelter, panic-struck,

T’wards heame they kevvel’d, yen and a’,

Nor ventur’d yen an a ewards luik

For fear he’d in the gilders fa’.

Thus single twea abuin a scwore,

Druive sleely frae their coarse deseyne;

An’ yet, tho’ disbelief may glowre,

This really com’ to pass lang seyne.

Thus, thro’ the langsome winter neets,

O’ curious teales sec rowth he’d tell,

O’ Brownies, ghosts, and flaysome sects,

Enough to flay the auld-yen’s sell:

As how when witches here were reyfe,

Reet sonsy fwok they gar’t to peyne;

An’ Michael Scot’s strange fearfu’ leyfe,

He telt, reet gleesomely, lang seyne.

Scot yence gat Criffell on his back,

Some pedder-leyke, as stwories tell;

But whow! his girtins gev a crack,

An’ down his boozy burden fell.

Auld Nick and Scot yence kempt, they say,

Whea best a reape frae sand could tweyne,

Clouts begg’d some caff; quo’ Michael, "Nay."

Sae bang’d the de’il at that lang seyne.

Wi’ clish-ma-clatter, cracks, and jwokes,

My friend and me the evenings pass’d,

Unenvying finger-fed fine fwoks,

Unmindfu’ o’ the whustlin’ blast:

Wi’ sweet content, what needit mair?

For nought need we our gizzerns tweyne;

The auld man’s common simple prayer

Was ay, “God be wi’ auld lang seyne”.

Someteymes he’d talk in wondrous rheymes

About t’ Rebellion, and how the Scots

Com’ owre, and what sec parlish teymes

They hed to hide their butter-pots;

A’ maks o’ gear i’ sacks they hid;

To th’ fells they drove beath beasts and sweyne.

Man! it wad chill thy varra bluid

To hear o’th’ warks o’ auld lang seyne.

Yet tho’ sec brulliments galwore

Oft snaip’d the quiet of our days,

Yet, God be thank’d, this awfu’ stowre

Suin ceas’d, wi’ a’ its feary phraise.

Then smilin’ peace yence mair restwor’d

Content or joy to every meynde,

An’ rowth an’ plenty crown’d each bwoard;

Nae mair we fret for auld lang seyne.

Oh, weels me! on those happy teymes

When a’ was freedom, friendship, joys,

’Or paughty preyde or neameless creymes

Were kent our comforts to destroy;

Nae thoughts of rank engag’d the soul,

But equals seem’d the squire and heynd;

The laird and dar’ker, cheek-by-chowle,

Wad sit and crack of auld lang seyne.

‘Twas then, that nin, however great,

Abuin his neybor thought his-sell,

But lads and lasses wont to meet

Wi’ merry changs their teales to tell;

Frae house to house the rock-gairds went

I’th’ winter neets when t’ moon did shine,

When lovesome sangs and blythe content

Beguil’d the hours of auld lang seyne.

Lang streek’d out owre the clean hearth-steane,

The lads their sicker stations tuik;

Wheyle to beet on the elden, yen,

As th’ auld guid man, sat i’th’ nuik.

When Curs’nmas com’ what stiving wark,

Wi’ sweet minch’d-pies and hackins feyne,

An’ upshots constantly by dark,