Page:Neil Gow's fareweel.pdf/4

Rh The magic bowl can lift the soul Aboon the warld and a’ its wrangs. Blythe, &c.

The days o’ man are but a span, This mortal life a passing dream, Nought to illume the dreary gloom, Save love an’ friendship’s sacred glean Blythe, &c.

Then toom your glass to my sweet lass, And niest we’ll turn it o’er to thine: The glowin’ breast that loes them best Shall dearest ever be to mine. Blythe, &c.

An’ here’s to you, my friend sae true, May discord ne’er a feeling wound! An’ should we flyte, ne’er harbour spite, But in a bowl be’t quickly drown’d. Blythe, &c.

Now rap and ring, an’ gar them bring The biggest stoupfu’ yet we’ve seen; Why should we part when hand an’ heart At ilka bumper grows mair keen? Blythe, &c.