O let us not like snarling tykes In wrangling be divided, Till, slap! come in an unco loon And wi’ a rung decide it. Be Britain still to Britain true, Amang oursels united; For never but by British hands Maun British wrangs be righted! The kettle o’ the kirk and state, Perhaps a clout may fail in’t; But deil a foreign tinkler loon Shall ever ca’ a nail in’t. Our father’s blude the kettle bought, An’ wha wad dare to spoil it? By heavens! the sacrilegious dog Shall fuel be to boil it! The wretch that would a tyrant own, And the wretch, his true-sworn brother, Who’d set the mob aboon the throne,— May they be damned together! Who will not sing _God save the King_! Shall hang as high’s the steeple; But while we sing _God save the King_! We’ll not forget the people! AULD LANG SYNE Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to min’? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And auld lang syne? For auld lang syne, my dear. For auld lang syne, We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet, For auld lang syne. We twa hae run about the braes, And pu’d the gowans fine; But we’ve wander’d mony a weary foot Sin’ auld lang syne. We twa hae paidled i’ the burn, From morning sun till dine; But seas between us braid hae roar’d Sin’ auld lang syne. And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere, And gie’s a hand o’ thine; And we’ll tak a right guid-willie waught, 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 lang syne, my dear. For auld lang syne, We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet, For auld lang syne. Longer Poems THE TWA DOGS ’Twas in that place o’ Scotland’s Isle, That bears the name o’ auld King Coil, Upon a bonnie day in June, When wearin’ through the afternoon, Twa dogs, that werena thrang at hame, Forgather’d ance upon a time. The first I’ll name, they ca’d him Caesar, Was keepit for his Honour’s pleasure; His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, Show’d he was nane o’ Scotland’s dogs, But whalpit some place far abroad, Where sailors gang to fish for cod. His lockèd, letter’d, braw brass collar, Shew’d him the gentleman and scholar; But though he was o’ high degree, The fient a pride, nae pride had he; But wad hae spent ane hour caressin’ E’en wi’ a tinkler-gipsy’s messan: At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, Nae tawted tyke, though e’er sae duddie, But he wad stand as glad to see him, An’ stroan’d on stanes an’ hillocks wi’ him.