The cauld blasts o' the winter wind, That thrilled through my heart, They're a' blawn by; I ha'e him safe, Till death we'll never part: But what puts parting in my head? It may be far awa'; The present moment is our ain, The neist we never saw. Since Colin's weel, I'm weel content, I ha'e nae more to crave; Could I but live to mak' him blest, I'm blest above the lave: And will I see his face again? And will I hear him speak? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,-- In troth, I'm like to greet. ROBERT FERGUSSON THE DAFT DAYS Now mirk December's dowie face Glowrs owr the rigs wi' sour grimace, While, thro' his minimum of space, The bleer-eyed sun, Wi' blinkin' light and steeling pace, His race doth run. From naked groves nae birdie sings; To shepherd's pipe nae hillock rings; The breeze nae od'rous flavour brings From Borean cave; And dwyning Nature droops her wings, Wi' visage grave. Mankind but scanty pleasure glean Frae snawy hill or barren plain, Whan Winter,'midst his nipping train, Wi' frozen spear, Sends drift owr a' his bleak domain, And guides the weir. Auld Reikiel thou'rt the canty hole, A bield for mony a caldrife soul, What snugly at thine ingle loll, Baith warm and couth, While round they gar the bicker roll To weet their mouth. When merry Yule Day comes, I trow, You'll scantlins find a hungry mou; Sma' are our cares, our stamacks fou O' gusty gear And kickshaws, strangers to our view Sin' fairn-year. Ye browster wives, now busk ye bra, And fling your sorrows far awa'; Then come and gie's the tither blaw O' reaming ale, Mair precious than the Well of Spa, Our hearts to heal. Then, though at odds wi' a' the warl', Amang oursells we'll never quarrel; Though Discord gie a cankered snarl To spoil our glee, As lang's there's pith into the barrel We'll drink and 'gree. Fiddlers, your pins in temper fix, And roset weel your fiddlesticks; But banish vile Italian tricks From out your quorum, Nor _fortes_ wi' _pianos_ mix-- Gie's 'Tullochgorum'! For naught can cheer the heart sae weel As can a canty Highland reel; It even vivifies the heel To skip and dance: Lifeless is he wha canna feel Its influence. Let mirth abound; let social cheer Invest the dawning of the year; Let blithesome innocence appear, To crown our joy; Nor envy, wi' sarcastic sneer, Our bliss destroy. And thou, great god of _aqua vitae!_ Wha sways the empire of this city,-- When fou we're sometimes caperneity,-- Be thou prepared To hedge us frae that black banditti, The City Guard. ANONYMOUS ABSENCE When I think on the happy days I spent wi' you, my dearie; And now what lands between us lie, How can I be but eerie! How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, As ye were wae and weary! It was na sae ye glinted by When I was wi' my dearie. JOHN LANGHORNE