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But still I think on auld langsyne, When Paradise our friends did tyne, Because something ran in their mind, Farbid, like Highland Whiskey, O.

Come a’ ye pow'rs of music come, I find my heart grows unco glum. My fiddle strings will no play bum, To play fareweel to Whisky. O. Yet I'll tak my fiddle in my hand. And screw the strings up while they’ll stand, To mak a lamentation grand, On gude auld Highland Whisky, O.

OH, TAKE ME TO YOUR ARMS.

Oh, take me to your arms, love, for keen the wind doth blow; Oh, take me to your arms, love, for bitter is my wo: One hears me not, she cares not, nor will she list to me, While here I lie, alone to die, beneath the willow tree!